ID 


AND 


Bi 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


PENCILLED   FLY-LEAVES. 

A  BOOK  OF  ESSAYS  IN  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY. 
BY  JOHN  JAMES  PIATT. 

1  vol.  16mo.     $1.00. 

"Mr.  Pia.it  has  written  a  pleasant  series  of  essays  on  a  capital  list  of  subjects. 
...  It  is  the  fashion  with  critics  to  make  mention,  more  or  less  slightingly  of 
detached  pieces,  bound  up  in  book  form.  But,  after  all,  how  else  should  we 
have  had  Lamb  arid  Hazlitt  ?  .  .  .  Mr.  Piatt  is  a  poet,  and  sees  the  poetic  side  of 
everyday  things.  He  is,  besides,  a  genial  optimist,  and  finds  in  the  disagreeables 
of  ife — for  instance,  going  to  bed  in  a  cold  room — a  delightful  experience." — 
Lippincott's  Magazine. 

"  These  essays  are  all  infused  with  the  same  cheerful  optimism,  reflective  spirit, 
sunny  wisdom,  and  flavour  of  personal  allusion  which  make  the  books  of  Hazlitt, 
Hunt,  and  Lamb,  such  delightful  companions.  Of  Hunt,  particularly,  the  writer 
often  reiuinds  us  by  his  charm  of  manner,  happy  selection  of  theme,  and  not 
infrequent  felicity  of  style." — The  (New  York)  Home  Journal. 

"Among  the  wit  and  humour  and  easy  flow  of  pleasant  things,  pleasantly 
said,  we  have  been  most  impressed  with  the  essay  on  'Unexpected  News  of 
Death.'  Serious,  without  being  sombre,  it  sinks  into  the  heart  of  the  reader  and 
carries  him  on  in  a  stream  of  thoughtfulness  which  would  not  be  unworthy  of 
Lamb  nor  of  Montaigne." — The  Independent. 

"  As  might  be  inferred  from  the  title,  both  grave  and  humorous  elements  are 
embraced  in  these  essays.  Pearls  of  thought  and  fancy  are  scattered  through 
them  all,  and  not  a  few  of  them  are  flavoured  with  that  quaintness  and  pathos 
which  appeal  both  to  the  intellect  and  the  best  feelings  of  our  common  nature. 
No  one  but  a  person  of  true  poetic  sensibilities  could  write  these  essays.  The 
author  makes  no  parade  of  his  mental  culture,  but  he  must  be  dull  or  blind  who 
does  not  discover,  on  almost  every  page,  in  phrase,  thought,  image,  or  allusion, 
the  flower  and  fruit  of  the  writer's  wide  and  sympathetic  studies.  Here  are  many 
passages  and  conceits  that  would  have  successfully  appealed  to  the  appreciation 
of  Isak  Walton,  White  of  Selborne,  and  Charles  Lamb."— The  Western  Christian 
Advocate. 

"  Mr.  Piatt's  style  is  perfectly  simple ;  it  would  satisfy  Wordsworth  with  its 
power  of  beautifying  thought  with  common  words.  .  .  .  The  elements  of  human 
life,  the  sources  of  affection,  are  made  much  of  by  Mr.  Piatt,  in  his  prose  as  in 
his  poetry,  so  that  life  itself  gains  that  value  and  importance  which  it  is  the 
province  of  literature  as  well  as  of  religion,  to  give  it,  and  which  can  be  accom 
plished,  as  the  result  proves,  without  any  straining  after  imaginative,  romantic 
situation  or  dramatic  effect." — The  Standard  of  the  Cross. 

"It  is  exquisite  prose,  too — pure,  fresh,  and  sweet  in  every  line." — Cincinnati 
Commercial. 

for  sale  by  all  Booksellers.     Sent,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of  the  price 
by  the  Publishers, 

ROBERT  CLARKE  &  CO.,  Cincinnati,  0. 


IDYLS  AND  LYRICS 


THE  OHIO  VALLEY. 


IDYLS  AND  LYRICS  OF  THE 
OHIO  VALLEY 


BY 


JOHN   JAMES    PIATT 

Author  of  "  Western  Windows"  "  Poems  of  House  and  Home"  etc. 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 


1888 


Copyright,  1887, 
Br  JOHN  JAMES   PIATT. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Printed  by  H.  0.  Hough  ton  &  Co 


Ps 


6 


!""  TO 

5 

MY    FATHER. 


BY    PUTTING    HIS   NAME    HERE    I   GIVE   TO   MY  BOOK, 
«M 

!*• 

yj  NOT    TO    HIM, 

CJ 

A  GIFT  OF  GRACE. 


O 
O 

id 


OJ 

13J 


449043 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

THIS  volume  comprises  such  of  the  Author's  pieces 
as  have  reference  to  the  extensive  region  indicated 
by    the    title,  with    a    selection   from   his    miscellaneous 
verses. 


CONTENTS. 


IDYLS  AND  LYRICS,  Etc. 

PAGE. 

THE  PIONEER'S  CHIMNEY 9 

FIRE  BEFORE  SEED 24 

THE  MOWER  IN  OHIO 27 

READING  THE  MILESTONE 33 

THE  GRAVE  OF  ROSE 35 

KING'S  TAVERN , 36 

FIRES  IN  ILLINOIS 40 

NEW  GRASS 44 

THE  BLACKBERRY  FARM 49 

LAND  IN  CLOUD 53 

A  LOST  GRAVEYARD 55 

SUNDOWN 57 

RIDING  TO  VOTE 60 

THE  DESERTED  SMITHY 66 

GRANDFATHER  WRIGHT 70 

THE  OLD  MAN  AND  THE  SPRING-LEAVES 71 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

THE  LOST  FARM 75 

THE  FORGOTTEN  WELL 86 

APPLE-GATHERING 89 

FARTHER 92 

Two  HARVESTS 93 

MOORE'S  CABIN 98 

WALKING  TO  THE  STATION 103 

TRANSFIGURATION 107 

OTHER  POEMS. 

THE  GOLDEN  HAND m 

THE  MORNING  STREET 114 

To  MY  BROTHER  GUY 118 

-  THE  THREE  WORK-DAYS... 121 

THE  LOST  GENIUS 122 

THE  UNBENDED  Bow 125 

CARPE  DIEM 127 

A  ROSE'S  JOURNEY 128 

TAKING  THE  NIGHT  TRAIN 129 

CONFLAGRATION 131 

THE  NEW  HOUSE 134 

THE  FIRST  TRYST 138 

ROSE  AND  ROOT 139 

THE  LOST  HORIZON 140 

MY  NIGHTMARE 143 

MARIAN'S  FIRST  HALF-YEAR 144 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

AWAKE  IN  DARKNESS 150 

BREVIA 151 

THE  MONK'S  VISION  OF  CHRIST 155 

SLEEP 157 

HOME  LONGING 158 

THE  DARK  STREET 159 

Two  WATCHERS ,  ,.  160 


THE   PIONEER'S  CHIMNEY. 

\\  7E  leave  the  highway  here  a  little  space  — 

(So  much  of  life  is  near  so  much  of  death : ) 
The  chimney  of  a  dwelling  still  is  seen, 
A  little  mound  of  ruin,   overgrown 
With  lithe,  long  grasses  and  domestic  weeds, 
Among  the  apple-trees  (the  ancestors 
Of  yonder  orchard  fruited  from  their  boughs)  — 
The  apple-trees  that,  when  the  place  was  rough 
With  the  wild  forests,   and  the  land  was  new, 

He  planted:  one,  departed  long  ago, 

(9) 


IO  THE   PIONEER  S    CHIMNEY. 

But  still  a  presence  unforgotten  here, 

Who  blessed  me  in  my  boyhood,  with  his  hands 

That  seemed  like  one's  anointed.     Gentle,  strong 

And  warmed  with  sunny  goodness,  warming  all, 

Was  he,  familiar  by  the  reverent  name 

Of  Uncle  Gardner  in  our  neighborhood: 

His  love  had  grown  to  common  property 

By  those  quick  ties  that  Nature  subtly  knits, 

And  so  at  last  had  claimed  the  bond  of  blood. 

He  was  an  elder  in  the  land,  and  held 
His  first  proprietary  right,  it  seemed, 
From  Nature's  self;  for,  in  an  earlier  day, 
He  came,  with  others  who  of  old  had  reached 
Their  neighbor  hands  across  New  England  farms, 
Over  the  mountains  to  this  Western  Land,  — 
A  journey  long  and  slow  and  perilous, 
With  many  hardships  and  the  homesick  look 


THE  PIONEERS  CHIMNEY.  II 

Of  wife  and  children  backward;  chose  his  farm, 
Builded  his  house,   and  cleared,   by  hard  degrees, 
Acres  that  soon  were  meadows  deep  and  broad, 
Or  wheat-fields  rocking  in  the  summer  heat. 

His  children  grew,  and  son  and  daughter  passed 
Into  the  world  that  grew  around,  and  some 
Into  that  world  which,  evermore  unseen, 
Is  still  about  us;  and  the  graveyard  where 
Their  bodies  slept  (a  few  half-sinking  stones, — 
A  stranger's  eyes  would  hardly  see  them,  —  show 
Seventy  rods  yonder  in  the  higher  ground) 
Gave  still  a  tenderer  title,  year  by  year, 
To  the  dear  places  earned  by  earlier  toil. 

Meanwhile  the  years  that  made  these  woody  vales 
An  eager  commonwealth  of  crowding  men 
Passed,  one  by  one,  and  every  thing  was  changed ; 


12  THE  PIONEER'S  CHIMNEY. 

And  he,  whose  limbs  were  like  the  hickory's  when 
He  came  with  life's  wrought  vigor  here,  was  changed  : 
He  heard  the  voice  that  tells  men  they  are  old. 
Yet  not  the  less  he  moved  his  usual  rounds, 
Walked  his  old  paths ;  not  idle,  sweated  still 
With  scythe  or  sickle  in  the  hay  or  wheat; 
Followed  his  plow,  when,  in  the  April  sun, 
The  blackbird  chattered  after,  and  the  crow 
Far-off  looked  anxious  for  the  new-dropped  corn ; 
And  gave  the  winter  hours  their  services 
With  sheep  abroad  on  slopes  that,  slanting  south, 
Breathed  off  the  snow  and  showed  a  warming  green, 
With  cattle  penned  at  home,  or  bounding  flail : 
Thus  —  not  forgetting  social  offices 
Throughout  all  seasons,  (gaining  so  the  love 
That  went  acknowledged  in  his  common  name,) — 
He,  like  the  Servant  in  the  Parable, 
Doing  his  duty,  waited  for  his  Lord. 


THE    PIONEERS    CHIMNEY.  13 

The  chimney  shows  enough  for  memory, 
And,  it  may  be,  a  traveler  passing  close, 
If  thoughtful,  well  might  think  a  tender  thought 
Of  vanished  fireside  faces,  in  his  dream 
Suddenly  lighted  by  a  vanished  fire; 
And  should  the  apple  trees  that  linger,  loth 
To  end  their  blossoming,  attract  his  eye, 
Their  fragrance  would  not  pass  unrecognized 
For  deeper  gifts  than  fragrance.     He  is  gone 
Who  planted  them,  and  thirty  years  are  gone. 
Now,  if  you  look  a  quarter-mile  away, 
Beyond  the  toll-gate  and  its  lifted  sweep, 
You  see  a  prouder  house,  not  new  nor  old, 
Beneath  whose  later  roof  no  spirit  dwells 
That  had  its  tenure  here:  a  stranger  holds 
The  secondary  ownership  of  law. 

It  is  a  story,  common  though  it  seem, 


14  THE  PIONEER'S  CHIMNEY. 

Tender  and  having  pathos  for  the  heart 

Which  knows,  but  will  not  know,  that  he  who  says 

"My  own,"  and  looks  to-day  on  willing  fields, 

And  sets  his  family  tree  in  trusted  ground, 

To-morrow  hears  another  answer  "Mine." 

Listen,  if  you  will  listen.     It  is  hard 

To  go  an  alien  from  familiar  doors 

When  we  are  young,  to  wrestle  where  we  go, 

And  win  or  lose  quick-hearted  —  we  are  strong; 

But  it  is  pitiful  when  weak  and  old, 

When  only  for  the  near  in  life  we  seek, 

And  Heaven,  yearned  after,  is  not  thought  afar, 

To  lose  our  shelter  and  to  want  for  rest. 

Of  Uncle  Gardner's  children  three  were  dead; 
Yonder  they  lie.     Their  mother  and  two  with  him — 
Two  youngest:  one  a  boy  of  fourteen  years 
His  latest  child ;  a  girl  of  seventeen  — 


THE    PIONEER  S    CHIMNEY.  1 5 

Breathed  in  his  still,  contented  atmosphere. 

An  elder  daughter,  wedded  years  before, 

Lived  far  away  in  watery  Michigan. 

His  eldest  son,  and  the  first-born  of  all, 

Thrived  as  a  merchant  in  the  city  near, — 

Had  thriven,  at  least,  or  so  'twas  said;  and  he 

For  some  shrewd  scheme  had  won  the  old  man's  will 

To  be  his  bond.     The  father  pledged  the  land — 

Willing  for  the  grown  man,   yet  for  the  boy 

And  for  his  girl  at  home  reluctantly, 

Holding  the  chance  a  rash  one.     From  that  day 

He  wrought  his  daily  labors  ill-content, 

And  with  a  trouble  in  his  countenance. 

To  things  familiar  came  a  subtle  change. 

The  brook  that  long  ago,  companion-like, 

Had  grown  acquainted  with  his  solitude, 

And,  later,  made  him  music  when  he  walked 

And  led  his  children  through  the  pasture-ground 


16  THE  PIONEER'S  CHIMNEY. 

Up  to  the  haying  or  the  harvest  gap, 
A  noisy  mimic  of  their  prattled  words, 
Now  seemed  to  lift  a  stranger's  face  at  him, 
Wondering  why  he  came  there,  who  he  was, 
Or  murmured,  with  a  long  and  low  lament, 
Some  undercurrent  of  an  exile's  song 
That  is  not  on  his  lips  but  in  his  heart. 
Nothing  was  as  it  had  been:    something  vague, 
That  Present  of  the  Future  which  is  born 
Within  the  bosom,  whispering  what  will  be, 
Met  him  and  followed  him,  and  would  not  cease 
To  meet  and  follow  him :    it  seemed  to  say 
"The  place  that  knew  you  shall  know  you  no  more." 
And  oftentimes  he  saw  the  highway  stirred 
With  slowly-journeying  dust,  and,  passing  slow, 
The  many  who  forever  in  our  land 
Were  going  farther,   driven  by  goads  unseen, 
Or  not  content  and  looking  for  the  new; 


THE  PIONEER'S  CHIMNEY.  17 

And  then  he  thought  of  how  in  those  dear  days 
He,  too,  had  ventured,  and  again  he  saw 
With  steadfast  eyes  forgotten  faces,  known 
When  he  was  young,  and  others  dear  to  him 
From  whom  he  parted  with  regret  but  firm 
In  the  strong  purposes  which  build  the  world ; 
Thought  of  his  consolation  —  she  most  dear 
Was  with  him,  they  most  helpless  with  him,  too, 
For  whom  he  sought  a  newer  world  of  hope ; 
"But  I  am  old,"  he  murmured,  "she  is  old," 
And  saw  his  hand  was  shaken  like  his  thought. 

Such  were  his  troubled  fancies.     When  he  slept, 
In  his  slow  dreams  —  with  lagging  team,  the  last 
Of  many  that,  in  yonder  meadows  foaled, 
Grew  and  became  a  portion  of  the  place  — 
Journeying  far  away,  and  never  more 

Reaching  his  journey's  goal,  (a  weary  road 

B 


15  THE    PIONEERS    CHIMNEY. 

Whose  end  came  only  with  the  waking  day,) 
He  seemed  to  pass,  and  always  'twas  the  same: 
Through  new-built  villages  of  joyous  homes, 
Homes  not  for  him;  by  openings  recent-made, 
But  not  for  him ;  by  cultivated  farms 
Of  other  men — and  always  'twas  the  same. 
Then,  when  he  woke  and  found  the  dream  a  dream, 
And  through  his  window  shone  the  sun  and  brought 
The  faint  rich  smell  of  the  new-tasseled  corn, 
More  fragrant  from  the  dew  that  weighed  it  down, 
He  murmured  of  his  fields  —  "For  other  men; 
They  are  not  mine.    The  mortgage  will  be  closed ; 
The  mortgage  goes  wherever  I  shall  go." 

So  passed  the  quarter  of  a  year,  and  so 
The  old  man,  burdened  with  his  little  world, 
Felt  it  upon  his  shoulders,  stooping  down, 
Bent  more  with  this  than  every  other  yean 


THE    PIONEER  S    CHIMNEY.  19 

And  summer  passed  to  autumn :  in  his  door 
He  sat  and  saw  the  leaves,  his  friends  of  old, 
Audible  in  the  sunshine,  falling,  falling, 
With  a  continuous  rustle  —  music  fit 
For  his  accompanying  thought.     At  last  it  came, 
The  blow  that  reached  his  heart  before  it  came, 
For  all  was  lost:  the  son,  whose  risk  he  placed 
Both  on  his  children's  home  and  on  his  heart, 
Was  ruined,  as  the  careless  worldlings  say  — 
Ruined  indeed,  it  seemed,  for  on  his  brain 
The  quick  stroke  flashed :    for  many  years  the  son 
Breathed  in  a  world  in  which  he  did  not  live. 

The  old  man  took  the  blow  but  did  not  fall  — 
Its  weight  had  been  before.     The  land  was  sold, 
The  mortgage  closed.     That  winter,  cold  and  long, 
(Permitted  by  the  hand  that  grasped  his  all, 
That  winter  passed  he  here,)  beside  his  fire 


2O  THE   PIONEER  S  CHIMNEY. 

He  talked  of  moving  in  the  spring;  he  talked, 
While  the  shrill  sap  cried  in  a  troubled  blaze, 
Like  one  whose  life  was  not  all  broken  down, 
Cheerfully  garrulous,  with  words  that  show 
False  witnesses  of  hope  and  seeming  strength 
When  these  are  gone  and  come  not.     In  the  spring, 
When  the  first  warmth  was  brooding  every-where, 
He  sat  beside  his  doorway  in  that  warmth, 
Watching  the  wagons  on  the  highway  pass, 
With  something  of  the  memory  of  his  dread 
In  the  last  autumn;   and  he  fell  asleep. 
Perhaps  within  his  sleep  he  seemed  again 
Journeying  far  away  for  evermore, 
Leaving  behind  the  homes  of  other  men, 
Seeking  a  newer  home  for  those  he  loved, 
A  pioneer  again.     And  so  he  slept 

And  still  he  sleeps;    his  grave  is  one  of  those. 


THE    PIONEER  S   CHIMNEY.  21 

His  wife  soon  joined  his  sleep  beside  him  there. 
Their  children  Time  has  taken  and  the  world. 

The  chimney  shows  enough  for  memory, 
The  graves  remain ;  all  other  trace  is  gone, 
Except  the  apple-trees  that  linger,  loth 
To  end  their  blossoming.      In  restless  moods 
I  used  to  wander  hither  oftentimes, 
And  often  tarried  till  the  twilight  came, 
Touched  with  the  melancholy  wrought  by  change; 
And  something  in  the  atmosphere,  I  thought, 
Remained  of  hours  and  faces  that  had  been. 
Then,  thinking  of  the  Past  and  all  I  knew, 
And  all  remembered,  of  it  —  most  of  him 
Whose  vanished  fireside  blazed  so  near  me  here  — 
My  fancy,  half  unconscious,  shaped  the  things 

Which  had  been,  and  among  the  quiet  trees 
3 


22  THE    PIONEER  S    CHIMNEY. 

The  chimney  from  its  burial  mound  arose ; 

The  ruined  farm-house  grew  a  quiet  ghost  — 

Its  walls  were  thrilled  with  fitful  murmurs,   made 

Within  by  voices  scarcely  heard  without; 

And  from  the  window  breathed  a  vaporous  light 

Into  the  outer  mist  of  vernal  dark, 

And  lo !    a  crowd  of  sparks  against  the  sky 

Sprang  suddenly,  at  times,  and  from  the  wood 

( The  wood  ?  —  no  wood  was  here  for  forty  years  ! ) 

Barked  the  shrill  fox,  and  all  the  stars  hung  bright ;  — 

Till,  busy  with  the  silence  far  away, 

(And  whether  heard  or  heard  not  hardly  known,) 

First  indistinct,  then  louder,  nearer  still, 

And  ever  louder,  grew  a  tremulous  roar; 

Then,  sudden,  flared  a  torch  from  out  the  night, 

And,  eastward  half-a-mile,  the  shimmering  train 

Hurried  across  the  darkness  and  the  dream, 

And  all  my  fantasy  was  gone,  at  once  — 


THE  PIONEER'S  CHIMNEY.  23 

The  lighted  window  and  the  fireside  sound : 

I  saw  the  heap  of  ruin  underfoot, 

And  overhead  the  leaves  were  jarred  awake, 

Whispering  a  moment  of  the  flying  fright, 

And  far  away  the  whistle,  like  a  cry, 

Shrill  in  the  darkness  reached  the  waiting  town. 


FIRE  BEFORE   SEED.* 

T  T  OW  bright  to-night  lies  all  the  Vale, 

Where  Autumn  scattered  harvest  gold, 
And,  far  off,  hummed  the  bounding  flail 
When  dark  autumnal  noons  were  cold! 

The  fields  put  on  a  mask  of  fire, 
Forever  changing,  in  the  dark;  — 

Lo,  yonder  upland  village  spire 
Flashes  in  air  a  crimson  spark ! 


*It  is  customary  in  some  parts  of  the  West  to  rake  the  last 
year's  stubble  of  corn  into  windrows  in  the  Spring,  and  burn  it, 
preparatory  to  breaking  the  ground  for  a  new  planting.  This 
burning  is  generally  done  after  night-fall:  —  its  effect  on  the  land 
scape  these  lines  were  intended  to  describe. 

(24) 


FIRE    BEFORE   SEED. 

I  see  the  farm-house  roofs  arise, 
Among  their  guardian  elms  asleep : 

Redly  the  flame  each  window  dyes, 

Through  vines  that  chill  and  leafless  creep. 

Along  the  lonely  lane,  that  goes 
Darkening  beyond  the  dusky  hill, 

Amid  the  light  the  cattle  doze 

And  sings  the  awakened  April  rill. 

The  mill  by  rocks  is  shadowed  o'er, 
But,  overhead,  the  shimmering  trees 

Stand  sentinels  of  the  rocky  shore 

And  bud  with  fire  against  the  breeze! 

Afar  the  restless  riffle  shakes 

Arrows  of  splendor  through  the  wood, 
Then  all  its  noisy  water  breaks 

Away  in  glimmering  solitude. 


26  FIRE    BEFORE   SEED. 

Gaze  down  into  the  bottoms  near, 

Where  all  the  darkness  broadly  warms: 

The  priests  who  guard  the  fires  appear 
Gigantic  shadows,  pigmy  forms ! 

The  enchanted  Year  shall  here  awake 
With  harvest  hope  among  her  flowers; 

And  nights  of  holy  dew  shall  make 
The  morning  smile  for  toiling  hours. 

Behold  the  Sower's  sacrifice 

Upon  the  altars  of  the  Spring !  — 

O  dead  Past,  into  flame  arise: 

New  seed  into  the  earth  we  fling! 


THE   MOWER   IN    OHIO. 
[JUNE,   MDCCCLXIV.] 

r  I  ^HE  bees  in  the  clover  are  making  honey,  and  I 

am  making  my  hay : 

The  air   is   fresh,  I  seem  to  draw   a  young  man's 
breath  to-day. 

The  bees  and  I  are  alone  in  the  grass :   the  air  is  so 

very  still 
I  hear  the  dam,   so  loud,   that  shines  beyond  the 

sullen  mill. 

Yes,  the  air  is  so  still  that  I  hear  almost  the  sounds 

I  can  not  hear  — 

(27) 


28  THE   MOWER    IN   OHIO. 

That,  when  no  other  sound  is  plain,  ring  in  my  empty 
ear: 

The  chime  of  striking  scythes,  the  fall  of  the  heavy 

swaths  they  sweep  — 
They  ring  about  me,  resting,  when  I  waver  half  asleep ; 

So  still,  I  am  not  sure  if  a  cloud,  low  down,  unseen 

there  be, 
Or  if  something  brings  a  rumor  home  of  the  cannon 

so  far  from  me : 

Far  away  in  Virginia,  where  Joseph  and  Grant,  I  know, 
Will  tell  them  what  I  meant  when  first  I  had  my 
mowers  go ! 

Joseph,  he  is  my  eldest  one,  the  only  boy  of  my  three 
Whose    shadow    can    darken    my   door  again,    and 
lighten  my  heart  for  me. 


THE    MOWER    IN    OHIO.  2g 

Joseph,  he  is  my  eldest  —  how  his  scythe  was  striking 

ahead ! 
William  was  better  at  shorter  heats,  but  Jo  in  the 

long-run  led. 

William, he  was  my  youngest;  John,  between  them, 

I  somehow  see, 
When  my  eyes  are  shut,  with  a  little  board  at  his 

head  in  Tennessee. 

But  William  came  home  one  morning  early,   from 

Gettysburg,  last  July, 
(The  mowing  was  over  already,  although  the  only 

mower  was  I : ) 

William,  my  captain,   came  home  for  good  to  his 

mother;  and  I'll  be  bound 
We  were  proud  and  cried  to  see  the  flag  that  wrapt 

4 

his  coffin  around; 


3O  THE    MOWER    IN    OHIO. 

For  a  company  from  the  town  came  up  ten  miles 

with  music  and  gun : 
It  seemed  his  country  claimed  him  then — as  well  as 

his  mother — her  son. 

But  Joseph  is  yonder  with  Grant  to-day,  a  thousand 

miles  or  near, 
And  only  the  bees  are  abroad  at  work  with  me  in  the 

clover  here. 

Was  it  a  murmur  of  thunder  I  heard  that  hummed 

again  in  the  air  ? 
Yet,  may  be,  the  cannon  are  sounding  now  their 

Onward  to  Richmond  there. 

But  under  the  beech  by  the  orchard,  at  noon,  I  sat 

an  hour  it  would  seem  — 
It  may  be  I  slept  a  minute,  too,  or  wavered  into  a 

dream. 


THE    MOWER    IN    OHIO.  31 

For  I  saw  my  boys,  across  the  field,  by  the  flashes 

as  they  went, 
Tramping  a  steady  tramp  as  of  old,  with  the  strength 

in  their  arms  unspent; 

Tramping  a  steady  tramp,  they  moved  like  soldiers 

that  march  to  the  beat 
Of  music  that  seems,  a  part  of  themselves,  to  rise 

and  fall  with  their  feet; 

Tramping  a  steady  tramp,  they  came  with  flashes  of 

silver  that  shone, 
Every  step,  from  their  scythes  that  rang  as  if  they 

needed  the  stone  — 

(The  field  is  wide  and  heavy  with  grass) — and,  com 
ing  toward  me,  they  beamed 

With  a  shine  of  light  in  their  faces  at  once,  and  — 
surely  I  must  have  dreamed! 


32  THE    MOWER    IN    OHIO. 

For  I  sat  alone  in  the  clover-field,  the  bees  were 

working  ahead. 
There  were  three  in  my  vision  —  remember,  old  man : 

and  what  if  Joseph  were  dead  ! 

But  I  hope  that  he  and  Grant  ( the  flag  above  them 

both,  to  boot,) 
Will  go  into  Richmond  together,  no  matter  which  is 

ahead  or  afoot ! 

Meantime,  alone  at  the  mowing  here — an  old  man 

somewhat  gray  — 
I  must  stay  at  home  as  long  as  I  can,  making,  myself, 

the  hay. 

And  so  another  round  —  the  quail  in  the  orchard 

whistles  blithe;  — 
But  first  I  '11  drink  at  the  spring  below,  and  whet 

again  my  scythe. 


READING  THE   MILESTONE. 

T   STOPPED  to  read  the  Milestone  here, 

A  laggard  school-boy,  long  ago ; 
I  came  not  far  —  my  home  was  near  — 
But  ah,  how  far  I  longed  to  go ! 

Behold  a  number  and  a  name, — 
A  finger,  Westward,  cut  in  stone: 

The  vision  of  a  city  came, 

Across  the  dust  and  distance  shown. 

Around  me  lay  the  farms  asleep 

In  hazes  of  autumnal  air, 
And  sounds  that  quiet  loves  to  keep 

Were  heard,  and  heard  not,  every-where. 


(33) 


34  READING  THE    MILESTONE. 

I  read  the  Milestone,  day  by  day: 
I  yearned  to  cross  the  barren  bound, 

To  know  the  golden  Far-away, 

To  walk  the  new  Enchanted  Ground ! 


THE   GRAVE   OF   ROSE. 

T    CAME  to  find  her  blithe  and  bright, 

Breathing  the  household  full  of  bloom, 
Wreathing  the  fireside  with  delight;  — 
I  found  her  in  her  tomb! 

I  came  to  find  her  gathering  flowers  — 
Their  fragrant  souls,  so  pure  and  dear, 

Haunting  her  face  in  lonely  hours;  — 
Her  single  flower  is  here ! 

For,  look:  the  gentle  name  that  shows 
Her  love,  her  loveliness,  and  bloom, 

(Her  only  epitaph  a  rose,) 
Is  growing  on  her  tomb ! 


(35) 


KING'S  TAVERN. 

1  ^AR-OFF  spires,  a  mist  of  silver,  shimmer  from 

the  far-off  town ; 

Haunting  here  the  dreary  turnpike,  stands  the  tavern, 
crumbling  down. 

Half  a  mile  before  you  pass  it,  half  a  mile  when  you 

are  gone, 
Like  a  ghost  it  comes  to  meet  you,  ghost-like  still  it 

follows  on. 

Never   more   the  sign-board,    swinging,    flaunts   its 
gilded  wonder  there : 

"Philip  King"  —  a  dazzled  harvest  shocked  in  West 
ern  sunset  air! 
(36) 


KING'S  TAVERN.  37 

Never,  as  with  nearer  tinkle  through  the  dust  of 

long  ago 
Creep  the   Pennsylvania  wagons  up  the  twilight  — 

white  and  slow. 

With  a  low,  monotonous   thunder,  yonder  flies  the 

hurrying  train  — 
Hark,  the  echoes  in  the  quarry ! —  in  the  woodland 

lost  again ! 

Never  more  the  friendly  windows,  red  with  warmth 

and  Christian  light, 
Breathe  the  traveler's  benediction   to   his  brethren 

in  the  night. 

Old  in  name,  The  Haunted  Tavern  holds  the  barren 

rise  alone ; — 
Standing  high  in  air  deserted,  ghost-like  long  itself 

has  grown. 

449043 


38  KING'S  TAVERN. 

Not  a  pane  in  any  window  —  many  a  ragged  cor 
ner-bit  : 

Boys,  the  strolling  exorcisors,  gave  the  ghost  their 
notice —  "Quit." 

Jamestown-weeds  have  close  invaded,  year  by  year, 

the  bar-room  door, 
Where,  within,  in  damp  and  silence  gleams  the  lizard 

on  the  floor. 

Through  the  roof  the  drear  Novembers  trickle  down 

the  midnight  slow; 
In  the  summer's  warping  sunshine  green  with  moss 

the  shingles  grow. 

Yet  in  Maying  wind  the  locust,  sifting  sunny  blossom, 

snows, 
And  the  rose-vine  still  remembers  some  dear  face 

that  loved  the  rose,  — 


KING  S    TAVERN.  39 

Climbing  up  a  southern  casement,  looking  in  neg 
lected  air; 

And,  in  golden  honey-weather,  careful  bees  are  hum 
ming  there. 

In  the  frozen  moon  at  midnight  some  have  heard, 

when  all  was  still  — 
Nothing,   I   know !     A    ghostly   silence   keeps   the 

tavern  on  the  hill ! 


FIRES   IN   ILLINOIS. 

T  T  OW  bright  this  weird  autumnal  eve  — 

While  the  wild  twilight  clings  around, 
Clothing  the  grasses  every-where, 
With  scarce  a  dream  of  sound  ! 

The  high  horizon's  northern  line, 
With  many  a  silent-leaping  spire, 

Seems  a  dark  shore  —  a  sea  of  flame  — 
Quick,  crawling  waves  of  fire ! 

(40) 


FIRES    IN    ILLINOIS.  41 

I  stand  in  dusky  solitude, 

October  breathing  low  and  chill, 
And  watch  the  far-off  blaze  that  leaps 

At  the  wind's  wayward  will. 

These  boundless  fields,  behold,  once  more, 

Sea-like  in  vanished  summers  stir; 
From  vanished  autumns  comes  the  Fire  — 

A  lone,  bright  harvester! 

I  see  wide  terror  lit  before  — 

Wild  steeds,  fierce  herds  of  bison  here; 

And,  blown  before  the  flying  flames,' 
The  flying-footed  deer! 

Long  trains  (with  shaken  bells,  that  move 

Along  red  twilights  sinking  slow) 
Whose  wheels  grew  weary  on  their  way 

Far  westward,  long  ago: 


42  FIRES   IN    ILLINOIS. 

Lone  wagons  bivouacked  in  the  blaze, 
That,  long  ago,  streamed  wildly  past; 

Faces,  from  that  bright  solitude, 
In  the  hot  gleam  aghast! 

A.  glare  of  faces  like  a  dream, 

No  history  after  or  before, 
Inside  the  horizon  with  the  flames, 

The  flames  —  nobody  more ! 

That  vision  vanishes  in  me, 

Sudden  and  swift  and  fierce  and  bright; 
Another  gentler  vision  fills 

The  solitude,  to-night: 

The  horizon  lightens  every-where, 

The  sunshine  rocks  on  windy  maize ;  — 

Hark,  every-where  are  busy  men, 
And  children  at  their  plays ! 


FIRES    IN    ILLINOIS.  43 


Far  church-spires  twinkle  at  the  sun, 
From  villages  of  quiet  born, 

And,  far  and  near,  and  every-where, 
Homes  stand  amid  the  corn. 

No  longer,  driven  by  wind,  the  Fire 
Makes  all  the  vast  horizon  glow, 

But,  numberless  as  the  stars  above, 
The  windows  shine  below ! 


NEW   GRASS. 

A  LONG  the  sultry  city  street, 

Faint  subtile  breaths  of  fragrance  meet 

Me,  wandering  unaware 
(In  April  warmth,  while  yet  the  sun 
For  Spring  no  constant  place  has  won,) 
By  many  a  vacant  square. 

Whoever  reads  these  lines  has  felt 

That  breath  whose  long-lost  perfumes  melt 

The  spirit  —  newly  found 
While  the  sweet,  banished  families 
Of  earth's  forgotten  sympathies 

Rise  from  the  sweating  ground. 

(44) 


NEW    GRASS.  45 


It  is  the  subtile  breath  of  grass; 
And  as  I  pause,  or  lingering  pass, 

With  half-shut  eyes,  behold! 
Bright  from  old  baptisms  of  the  dew, 
Fresh  meadows  burst  upon  my  view, 

And  new  becomes  the  old  ! 

Old  longings  (Pleasure  kissing  Pain), 
Old  visions  visit  me  again  — 

Life's  quiet  deeps  are  stirred: 
The  fountain-heads  of  memory  flow 
Through  channels  dry  so  long  ago, 

With  music  long  unheard. 

I  think  of  pastures,  evermore 
Greener  than  any  hour  before, 

Where  cattle  wander  slow, 
Large-uddered  in  the  sun,  or  chew 


46  NEW    GRASS. 

The  cud  content  in  shadows  new, 

Or,  shadowy,  homeward  low. 

I  dream  of  prairies  dear  to  me  : 
Afar  in  town  I  seem  to  see 

Their  widening  miles  arise, 
Where,  like  the  butterfly  anear, 
Far  off  in  sunny  mist  the  deer, 

That  seems  no  larger,  flies. 

Thy  rural  lanes,  Ohio,  come 

Back  to  me,  grateful  with  the  hum 

Of  every  thing  that  stirs : 
Dear  places,  saddened  by  the  years, 
Lost  to  my  sight  send  sudden  tears 

Their  secret  messengers. 

I  think  of  paths  a-swarm  with  wings 
Of  bird  and  bee  —  all  lovely  things 


NEW    GRASS.  47 

From  sun  or  sunny  clod ;  — 
Of  play-grounds  where  we  children  play, 
And  fear  not  Time  will  come  to-day, 

And  feel  the  warming  sod. 

New  grass:  it  grows  by  cottage  doors, 
In  orchards  hushed  with  bloom,  by  shores 

Of  streams  that  flow  as  green, 
On  hill-slopes  white  with  tents  or  sheep, 
And  where  the  sacred  mosses  keep 

The  holy  dead  unseen. 

It  grows  o'er  distant  graves  I  know :  — 
Sweet  grass !  above  them  greener  grow, 

And  guard  them  tenderly ! 
My  brother's,  not  three  summers  green ; 
My  sister's  —  new  made,  only  seen 

Through  far-off  tears  by  me ! 


48  NEW   GRASS. 

It  grows  on  battle-fields  —  alas, 
Old  battle-fields  in  withered  grass! 

New  battles  wait  the  new : 
Hark,  is  it  the  living  warmth  I  hear?- 
The  cannon  far  or  bee  anear? 

The  bee  and  cannon  tool 
WASHINGTON,  D.  C.,  April,  1863. 


THE    BLACKBERRY   FARM. 

"XTATURE  gives  with  freest  hands 
Richest  gifts  to  poorest  lands. 
When  the  lord  has  sown  his  last 
And  his  field  's  to  desert  passed, 
She  begins  to  claim  her  own, 
And  —  instead  of  harvests  flown, 
Sunburnt  sheaves  and  golden  ears 
Sends  her  hardier  pioneers: 
Barbarous  brambles,  outlawed  seeds, 
The  first  families  of  weeds 
Fearing  neither  sun  nor  wind, 
With  the  flowers  of  their  kind 
(Outcasts  of  the  garden-bound) 


(49) 


THE    BLACKBERRY   FARM. 

Colonize  the  expended  ground, 
Using  (none  her  right  gainsay) 
Confiscations  of  decay :  — 
Thus  she  clothes  the  barren   place, 
Old  disgrace,  with  newer  grace. 
Title-deeds,  which  cover  lands 
Ruled  and  reaped  by  buried  hands, 
She  —  disowning  owners  old, 
Scorning  their  "to  have  and  hold" 
Takes  herself;  the  moldering  fence 
Hides  with  her  munificence ; 
O'er  the  crumbled  gatepost  twines 
Her  proprietary  vines; 
On  the  doorstep  of  the  house 
Writes  in  moss  "Anonymous," 
And,  that  beast  and  bird  may  see, 
"This  is  Public  property;" 
To  the  bramble  makes  the  sun 


THE    BLACKBERRY    FARM.  51 

Bearer  of  profusion : 
Blossom-odors  breathe  in  June 
Promise  of  her  later  boon, 
And  in  August's  brazen  heat 
Grows  the  prophecy  complete ;  — 
Lo,  her  largess  glistens  bright, 
Blackness  diamonded  with  light! 
Then,  behold,  she  welcomes  all 
To  her  annual  festival : 
"Mine  the  fruit  but  yours  as  well," 
Speaks  the  Mother  Miracle ; 
"Rich  and  poor  are  welcome;  come, 
Make  to-day  millennium 
In  my  garden  of  the  sun : 
Black  and  white  to  me  are  one. 
This  my  freehold  use  content  — 
Here  no  landlord  rides  for  rent ; 
I  proclaim  my  jubilee, 


52  THE    BLACKBERRY    FARM. 

In  my  Black  Republic,  free. 
Come,"  she  beckons;   "enter,  through 
Gates  of  gossamer,  doors  of  dew 
(Lit  with  Summer's  tropic  fire), 
My  Liberia  of  the  brier." 


LAND   IN   CLOUD. 

A  BOVE  the  sunken  sun  the  clouds  are  fired 

With  a  dark  splendor;  the  enchanted  hour 
Works  momentary  miracles  in  the  sky; 
Weird  shadows  take  from  fancy  what  they  lack 
For  semblance,  and  I  see  a  boundless  plain, 
A  mist  of  sun  and  sheaves  in  boundless  air, 
Gigantic  shapes  of  Reapers  moving  slow 
In  some  new  harvest: — so  I  can  but  dream 
Of  my  great  Land,  that  takes  its  Morning  star 
Out  of  the  dusky  Evening  of  the  East : 
My  Land,  that  lifted  into  vision  gleams 

Misty  and  vast,  a  boundless  plain  afar, 

(53) 


54  LAND    IN    CLOUD. 

(Like  yonder  fading  fantasy  of  cloud,) 
With  shadowy  Reapers  moving,  vague  and  slow, 
In  some  wide  harvest  of  the  days  to  be  — 
A  mist  of  sun  and  sheaves  in  boundless  air ! 


A   LOST  GRAVEYARD. 

AT  EAR  by,  a  soundless  road  is  seen,  o'ergrown 

with  grass  and  brier; 

Far  off,  the  highway's  signal  flies  —  a  hurrying  dust 
of  fire. 

But  here,  among  forgotten  graves,  in  June's  delicious 

breath, 
I  linger  where  the  living  loved  to  dream  of  lovely 

death. 

Worn   letters,  lit   with   heavenward   thought,  these 

crumbled  headstones  wear; 
Fresh  flowers  (old  epitaphs  of  Love)  are  fragrant 

here  and  there. 

(55) 


$6  A    LOST     GRAVEYARD. 

Years,  years  ago,  these  graves  were  made ; — no  mourn 
ers  come  to-day : 

Their  footsteps  vanished,  one  by  one,  moving  the 
other  way. 

Through   the   loud   world   they  walk,  or   lie  —  like 

those  here  left  at  rest  — 
With  two  long-folded  useless  arms  on  each  forgotten 

breast 


SUNDOWN. 

"\  T  7HILE  fitful  breezes  kiss  to  frosty  gold 

The  swells  of  foliage  down  the  vale  serene, 
And  all  the  sunset  fills 
The  dreamland  of  the  hills, 
Now  all  the  enchantment  of  October  old 
Feels  a  cold  veil  fall  o'er  its  passing  scene. 

Low  sounds  of  Autumn  creep  along  the  plains, 
Through  the  wide  stillness  of  the  woodlands  brown, 
Where  the  weird  waters  hold 
The  melancholy  gold ; 

The  cattle,  lingering  slow  through  river  lanes, 
Brush   yellowing  vines  that  swing  through  elm- 
trees  down. 

(57) 


58  SUNDOWN. 

The  forests,  climbing  up  the  northern  air, 

Wear  far  an  azure  slumber  through  the  light, 
Showing,  in  pictures  strange, 
The  stealthy  wand  of  change; 

The  corn  shows  languid  breezes,  here  and  there  — 
Faint-heard  o'er  all  the  bottoms  wide  and  bright. 

On  many  a  silent  circle  slowly  blown, 

The  hawk,  in  sun-flushed  calm  suspended  high, 
With  careless  trust  of  might 
Slides  wing-wide  through  the  light,  — 
Now  golden  through  the  restless  dazzle  shown, 
Now  drooping  down,   now  swinging  up  the  sky. 

Wind-worn  along  their  sunburnt  gables  old, 
The  barns  are  full  of  all  the  Indian  sun, 
In  golden  quiet  wrought 
Like  webs  of  dreamy  thought. 


SUNDOWN.  59 

And  in  their  Winter  shelter  safely  hold 

The  green  year's  earnest  promise  harvest-won. 

With  evening  bells  that  gather,  low  or  loud, 

Some  village,  through  the  distance,  poplar-bound, 
O'er  meadows  silent  grown, 
And  lanes  with  crisp  leaves  strown, 
Lifts  up  one  spire,  aflame,  against  a  cloud 

That  slumbers  eastward,  slow  and  silver-crowned. 


RIDING  TO   VOTE. 
[THE  OLD  DEMOCRAT  IN  THE  WEST.] 

"X/ONDER    the    bleak   old    tavern    stands  —  the 

faded  sign  before, 
That  years  ago  a  setting  sun   and  banded   harvest 

bore: 
The  tavern  stands  the  same  to-day,  — the  sign  you 

look  upon 
Has  glintings  of  the  dazzled  sheaves,  but  nothing 

of  the  sun. 

In   Jackson's  days,  a   gay  young  man,  with  spirit 

hale  and  blithe, 
(60) 


RIDING   TO    VOTE.  6 1 

And  form  like  the  young  hickory,  so  tough  and 
tall  and  lithe, 

I  first  remember  coming  up  —  we  came  a  wagon- 
load, 

A  dozen  for  Old  Hickory  —  this  rough  November 
road. 

Ah !   forty   years  —  they  help   a   man,  you   see,   in 

getting  gray; 
They  can  not   take  the  manly  soul,  that   makes   a 

man,  away ! 
It's  forty  years,  or  near:  to-day  I  go  to  vote  once 

more ; 
Here,  half  a  mile  away,  we  see  the  crowd  about  the 

door. 

My  boys,  in  Eighteen  Sixty  —  what !  my  boys  ?  my 

men,  I  mean ! 
6 


62  RIDING   TO    VOTE. 

( No  better  men,  no  braver  souls,  in  flesh-and-blood 

are  seen ! ) — 
One  twenty-six,  one  twenty-three,  rode  with  their 

father  then : 
The  ballot-box  remembers  theirs  —  my  vote  I'll  try 

again  ! 

The  ballot-box  remembers  theirs,  the  country  well 

might  know  — 

Though  in  a  million  only  two  for  little  seem  to  go; 
But,  somehow,  when  my  ticket  slipped   I   dreamed 

of  Jackson's  day : 
The  land,   I  thought,  has  need  of  one  whose  will 

will  find  a  way! 

"He  did  not  waver  when  the  need  had  called  for 

steadfast  thought,  — 
The  word  he  spoke  made  plain  the  deed  that  lay 

behind  it  wrought;" 


RIDING   TO   VOTE.  63 

And  while  I  mused  the  Present  fell,  and,  breathing 

back  the  Past, 
Again  it  seemed  the  hale  young  man  his  vote  for 

Jackson  cast ! 

Thank  God   it  was  not   lost !  —  my  vote  I  did  not 

cast  in  vain! 
I   go   alone    to   drop    my   vote,   the   glorious   vote, 

again ; 
Alone  —  where  three  together  fell   but  one  to-day 

shall  fall; 
But  though  I  go  alone  to-day,  one  voice  shall  speak 

for  all! 

For  when  our  men,  awaking  quick,  from  hearth  and 

threshold  came, 
Mine    did    not   say,    "Another   day!"  but    started 

like  a  flame ; 


64  RIDING  TO   VOTE. 

I'll   vote   for   them   as  well   as   me;    they   died   as 

soldiers  can, 
But  in  my  vote  their  voices  each  shall  claim  the 

right  of  man. 

The   elder   left   his   wife   and    child — my   vote    for 

these  shall  tell; 
The  younger's  sweet-heart   has  a  claim  —  I  '11   vote 

for  her  as  well ! 
Yes !  for  the  myriad  speechless  tongues,  the  myriad 

offered  lives, — 
Oh,    desolation    at    the    heart    of  orphans    and    of 

wives ! 

I  go  to  give  my  vote  alone  —  I  curse  your  shameless 

shame 
Who  fight  for  traitors  here  at  home  in  Peace's  holy 

name ! 


RIDING    TO    VOTE.  65 

I  go  to  give  my  vote  alone,  but,  even  while  I  do, 
I  vote  for  dead  and  living,  all — the  living  dead  and 
you ! 

See  yonder  tree  beside  the  field,  caught  in  the  sud 
den  sough, 

How  conscious  of  its  strength  it  leans,  how  straight 
and  steadfast  now ! 

If  Lincoln  bends  (for  all,  through  him,  my  vote  I 
mean  to  cast)  — 

What  winds  have  blown  !  what  storms  he 's  known ! 
the  hickory's  straight  at  last ! 

NOVEMBER,  1864. 


THE   DESERTED   SMITHY. 

A  T  the  end  of  the  lane  and  in  sight  of  the  mill 

Is  the  smithy;   I  pass  it  to-day,  in  a  dream 

Of  the  days  whose  red  blood  in  my  bosom  is  warm, 

While  the  real  alone  as  the  vanished  I  deem : 
For  the  years  they  may  crumble  to  dust  in  the  heart, 
But  the  roses  will  bloom  though  the  grave-stones 
depart. 

In  the  loneliest  evenings  of  long  ago, 

The  smithy  was  dear  in  the  darkness  to  me, 
When  the  clouds  were  all  heaping  the  world  with 
their  snow, 

(66) 


THE    DESERTED    SMITHY.  6/ 

And  the  wind  shivered  over  dead   leaves  on  the 

tree ; 
Through  the  snow-shower  it  seemed  to  be  bursting 

aflame :  — 
How  the  sparks  in  the  dark  from  the  chimney  came ! 

It  was  dear  in  the  Past;  and  still  it  is  dear, 
In  the  memory  fond  of  the  far-away  time, 
When   the  binging  and  banging,   and  clinging  and 

clanging, 
In   the   heart  of  my  boyhood,  were   music   and 

rhyme ; 

When  the  bellows  groaned  to  the  furnace-glow, 
And  the  lights  through  the  chinks  danced  out  in  the 
snow. 

The  irons  within  on  the  anvils  were  ringing: 
There  were  glowing  arms  in  the  bursting  gleam ; 


68  THE   DESERTED   SMITHY. 

And  shadows  were  glowering  away  in  the  gloaming, 

That,  suddenly  bounding  to  giants,  would  seem 
Now  out  of  the  open  doorways  to  spring, 
Now  up  in  the  rafters  vanishing ! 

The  smith  I  remember:  oh,  many  a  smile 
Has  played  on  his  lips  with  me,  and  kind 

Were  the  words  that  would  lighten  the  dusk  of  his 

face  — 
His  face,  at  the  memory,  gleams  in  my  mind  — 

With  a  heart  that  could  beat  in  the  heart  of  a  boy, 

A  heart  for  his  grief,  and  a  heart  for  his  joy! 

Adown  from  the  farm  of  my  father  once  more, 
That  so  long  has  forgotten  us  up  on  the  hill, — 

With  the  wings  in  my  blood  to  the  bound  of  the 

steed, 
That  passes  the  breezes  so  merry  and  shrill, — 


THE    DESERTED    SMITHY.  69 

I  seem  to  be  flying ;  then,  suddenly,  seem 

To  drop  to  the  earth  from  the  wings  of  my  dream ! 

Vain  dream  of  the  Past !  —  But  I  pass  it  to-day : 
No  longer  the  furnace  is  bursting  with  flame ; 

No  longer  the  music  'comes  out  of  the  door, 
That,  long  ago,  to  the  schoolboy  came : 

The  winds  whisper  low  through  the  window  and  door, 

The  chimney  is  part  of  the  dust  of  the  floor. 

.    .    .    Phoebe  Morris  !  sweet  Phoebe! — the  sweetest 
of  girls 

That  brightened  old  dreams  with  a  beautiful  face ! — 
It  may  be  that  she  smiled  from  her  father's  lips, 

And  blossomed  her  smile  in  the  dusky  place  ! 
Ah,  she  smiles,  to-day,  in  my  boyhood  for  me, 
With  her  lips  that  are  kissing  —  a  memory! 


GRANDFATHER   WRIGHT. 

T  E  knew  of  the  great  pioneering  days, 

And  the  dread  Indian  times  that  only  live 
In  dreams  of  old  men  when  the  ember-ghost 
Of  long  December  evenings,  Memory, 
Rising  from  the  white  ashes  of  the  hearth 
And  from  the  ashes  of  their  outburnt  lives, 
Haunts  them,  and  fills  them  with  a  tender  breath 
From  the  rough  forests,  full  of  wolves  and  deer, 
Where  their  young  hearts  made  the  fierce  land  their 
own. 


(70) 


THE  OLD  MAN  AND  THE  SPRING-LEAVES. 

T  TNDERNEATH  the  beechen  tree 
All  things  fall  in  love  with  me ! 
Birds,  that  sing  so  sweetly,  sung 
Ne'er  more  sweet  when  I  was  young; 
Some  shy  fay,  ( I  will  not  see ! ) 
Steals  to  kiss  me,  lovingly; 
All  the  leaves,  so  blithe  and  bright, 
Dancing  sing  in  Maying  light 
Over  me:   "At  last,  at  last, 

He  is  stolen  from  the  Past!" 

(70 


72  THE   OLD    MAN    AND    THE   SPRING-LEAVES. 

Wherefore,  leaves,  so  merrily  mad? 
I  am  rather  sad  than  glad. 

"He  is  the  happy  child  that  played 
Underneath  our  beechen  shade, 
Years  ago,  — whom  all  things  bright 
Gladdened,  glad  with  his  delight ! " 

I  am  not  the  child  that  played 

Underneath  your  beechen  shade; 

I  am  not  the  boy  ye  sung 

Songs  to,  in  lost  fairy-tongue. 

He  read  fairy  dreams  below: 

Legends  leaves  and  flowers  must  know; 

He  dreamed  fairy  dreams,  while  ye 

Changed  to  fairies,  in  your  glee 

Dancing,  singing,  on  the  tree; 

And,  awakened,  fairy-land 


THE    OLD    MAN    AND    THE   SPRING-LEAVES.  73 

Circled  childhood's  magic  wand ! 

Joy  warmed  his  heart,  joy  kissed  his  brow;  — 

I  am  following  funerals  now. 

Fairy  shores  from  Time  depart ; 

Lost  horizons  flush  my  heart. 

I  am  not  the  child  that  played 

Underneath  your  beechen  shade. 

"  '  T  is  the  merry  child  that  played 
Underneath  our  beechen  shade, 
Years  ago,  — whom  all  things  bright 
Gladdened,  glad  with  his  delight!" 

Ah,  the  bright  leaves  will  not  know 
That  an  old  man  dreams  below  ! 
No;  they  will  not  hear  nor  see, — 
Clapping  their  hands  at  finding  me, 
Singing,  dancing,  on  their  tree ! 


74          THE    OLD    MAN    AND    THE   SPRING-LEAVES. 

Ah,  their  happy  voices  steal 
Years  away ;  —  again  I  feel, 
While  they  sing  to  me  apart, 
The  lost  child  come  in  my  heart: 
In  the  enchantment  of  the  Past, 
The  old  man  is  the  child  at  last! 


THE  LOST  FARM. 
THE   SCHOOLMASTER'S    STORY. 

"\  7f  7HEN  my  strong  fathers  came  into  the  West, 
They  chose  a  tract  of  land  which  seemed  the 

best, 

Near  a  swift  river,  in  whose  constant  flow 
Peacefully  earth  and  heaven  were  one  below  ; 
Gigantic  wardens,  on  the  horizon,  stood 
Far-circling  hills,  rough  to  their  tops  with  wood. 

They  came,  a  long  and  dangerous  journey  then, 
Through  paths  that  had  not  known  of  civil  men ; 
With  wives  and  children  looking  back,  and  still 

Returning  long  in  dreams  confusing  will, 

(75) 


/  THE    LOST    FARM. 

They  came,  and  in  the  panther-startled  shade 
The  deep  foundations  of  a  State  were  laid. 
The  axe,  in  stalwart  hands,  with  steadfast  stroke, 
The  savage  echoes  of  the  forest  woke, 
And,  one  by  one,  breaking  the  world-old  spell, 
The  hardy  trees,  long-crashing,  with  thunder  fell. 
The  log-house  rose,  within  the  solitude, 
And  civilized  the  tenants  of  the  wood. 
It  was  not  long  before  the  shadow'd  mold 
Open'd  to  take  the  sunshine's  gift  of  gold  ; 
In  the  dark  furrow  dropp'd  the  trusted  seed, 
And  the  first  harvest  bless'd  the  sower's  need. 

Oh,  dear  the  memory  of  their  simpler  wealth, 
Whose  hardship  nursed  the  iron  flower  of  health  ; 
Oh,  sweet  the  record  of  the  lives  they  spent, 
Whose  breath  was  peace,  whose  benison  content ; 
Unenvied  now  by  us,  their  delicate  sons, 


THE    LOST    FARM.  JJ 

The  dangers  which  they  braved,  those  heartier  ones  ! 

The  Indian's  midnight  coming,  long  ago, 

And  the  wolf's  howl  in  nights  that  shone  with  snow, 

These  are  but  dreams  to  us  (who  would  but  dream), 

Pictured  far  off,  heard  as  lost  sounds  that  seem  : 

They  knew  the  terror,  seventy  years  gone  by, 

Of  the  realities  we  may  not  try, 

Who  left  the  farm  on  which  my  new-born  eyes 

Saw  the  great  miracle  of  earth  and  skies. 

The  fields  were  clear'd  ;  the  farm-house,  girt  around 
With  meadow-lands  and  orchards,  held  its  ground ; 
The  goodly  place  had  wavering  uplands,  sweet 
With  cattle-pastures,  hot  with  ripening  wheat. 
The  house  look'd  Westward,  where  the  river  lay 
Shimmering  o'er  level  lands  at  close  of  day, 
Or,  many-twinkling  through  the  autumnal  morn, 
In  the  hazy  heat  rustled  the  languid  corn. 


78  THE    LOST    FARM. 

Not  far  were  neighbors — heirs  of  acres  wide, 
Or  the  small  farms  in  which  the  old  divide. 
By  the  close  pike,  a  half-mile  off  to  the  north, 
The  tavern,  with  old-fashion'd  sign  thrust  forth, 
Show'd  Washington,  a  little  faded  then, 
(Too  faded  now,  among  new-famous  men !) 
And,  close  beside,  the  blacksmith-shop  was  found, 
In  August  noons  obtrusive  with  its  sound, 
Or  late  in  winter  eves,  a  welcome  sight, 
Burning    and    brightening    through    with    bursting 
light ! 

Such  was  the  farm — how  dear  to  my  regret!— 
Whose  fresh  life  runs  into  my  bosom  yet. 
My  dreams  may  bear  me  thither  even  now . 
Again,  with  eager  heart  and  sunburnt  brow, 
Homesick  at  times,  I  take  a  noiseless  train, 
Wandering,  breath-like,  to  my  home  again; 


THE    LOST    FARM.  79 

See  my  glad  brothers,  in  the  June-sweet  air, 

Toss  the  green  hay,  the  hot  sheaves  of  harvest  bear  ; 

The  fireside  warms  into  my  heart — how  plain  ! 

And  my  lost  mother  takes  her  boy  again  ; 

My  sisters  steal  around  me  tenderly — 

And  all  that  can  not  be  yet  seems  to  be  ! 

In  thirty  years  what  changes  there  have  been  ! — 
How  disappear  the  landmarks  that  were  seen ! 
If  I  should  go  to  seek  my  boyhood's  place, 
What  chart  would  show  the  way,  what  guide  would 
trace  ? 

New  people  came.     Around  the  tavern  grew 
New  dwellings  and  new  manners — all  things  new. 
The  impetus  of  something  in  the  land 
(Some  gold,  unseen,  diviners  understand), 
Some  mystic  loadstone  of  the  earth  or  air, 


8O  THE    LOST    FARM. 

Drew  all  the  nimble  spirits  of  action  there. 

The  village,  not  without  a  conscious  pride, 

Grew  fast  and  gather'd  in  the  country-side, 

Then  took  the  style  of  town.     And  now,  behold, 

A  wild,  strange  rumor  through  the  country  roll'd  ! — 

A  railroad  was  projected,  East  and  West, 

Which   would    not   slight   us,    so   the    shrewd    ones 

guess'd. 

Strange  men  with  chain  and  compass  came  at  last 
Among  the  hills,  across  the  valley  pass'd  ; 
Through  field  and  woodland,  pasture,  orchard,  they 
Turn'd  not  aside,  but  kept  straight  on  their  way. 
Old  farmers  threaten'd,  but  it  did  no  good — 
The  quick  conservatives  of  the  neighborhood. 
"We  do  not  want  it !"  many  said,  and  one, 
"  Through  field  of  mine  I  swear  it  shall  not  run  ! " 
And  paced  his  boundary-line  with  loaded  gun. 
Others  replied  (wise,  weather-sighted,  they !) 


THE    LOST   FARM.  8 1 

"  You  '11  think  a  little  different,  friend,  some  day. 
The  wheels  of  progress  will  you  block — good  speed ! 
(Cut  off  your  nose  to  spite  your  face,  indeed  !) 
'Twill  make  the  land  worth  double,  where  you  walk." 
"Stuff!  stuff!"  the  old  fogies  answer'd — "how  you 
talk ! " 

The  road  was  open'd.     Soon  another,  down 
Northward  and  Southward,  cut  across  the  town  : 
Both  pass'd  through   meadows  where   my  boyhood 

stray'd : 

One  through  the  barn  within  whose  mow  I  play'd. 
And  then  a  newer  force  of  circumstance 
Took  hold  and  pull'd  the  place  in  quick  advance: 
The  lovely  river — swift,  and  deep,  and  strong — 
Upon  whose  shore  I  fish'd  and  idled  long, 
(The  still  companion  of  my  dreaming  hour,) 
Had  great  advantages  of  water-power. 


82  THE    LOST    FARM. 

Saw-mills  and  grist-mills,  factories  builded  there, 
Cover'd  the  banks  and  jarr'd  the  quiet  air. 
The  river  could  not  sleep  nor  dream  its  old 
Beautiful  dream,  in  morn  or  evening  gold, 
Or  as  a  fallen  soul  had  fitful  glance 
At  its  divine  and  lost  inheritance. 

The  town  became  a  city — growing  still, 

And  growing  ever,  with  a  giant's  will 

Gathering  and  grasping,  changing  all  it  took. 

A  city  sewer  was  my  school-boy  brook. 

The  farm  remain' d,  but  only  in  the  name ; 

The  old  associations  lived  the  same. 

The  approaching  city  drew  its  arm  around, 

And  threaten'd  more  and  more  the  invaded  ground ; 

Near  and  more  near  its  noises  humm'd  and  groan'd, 

(Higher  and  higher  priced  the  land  we  own'd !) 

My  father  held  his  ground,  and  would  not  sell. 


THE    LOST    FARM.  83 

The  stiff  wiseacres  praised  his  wisdom  well. 

At  last  I  came  from  home.     At  college  long 

Absent,  at  home  something,  meanwhile,  went  wrong, 

I  need  not  tell  the  fact.     What  house  is  proof, 

With  jealous  threshold  and  protected  roof, 

Against  the  subtle  foes  that  every-where 

Stand  waiting  to  attack  in  safest  air — 

The  insidious  foes  of  Fortune  or  of  Fate, 

Who  plan  our  ruin  while  we  estimate 

Our  sum  of  new  success  ?     My  father  died — 

(My  mother  soon  was  buried  by  his  side  ;) 

The  farm  pass'd  into  speculative  hands, 

Who  turn'd  to  sudden  profit  all  its  lands. 

The  greedy  city  seized  upon  them  fast, 

And  the  dear  home  was  swept  into  the  Past. 

Across  its  quiet  meadows  streets  were  laid, 

White-hot,  the  dusty  thoroughfares  of  trade. 


84  THE    LOST    FARM. 

Where  the  gray  farm-house  had  its  sacred  hearth 
Sprang  buildings  hiding  heaven  and  crowding  earth. 

A  score  of  years  were  pass'd.     Return'd  by  chance 

(A  railway  accident  the  circumstance) 

To  that  strange  city  only  known  by  name, 

Unwilling  visitor  by  night  I  came  ; 

And,  sleeping  there  within  some  great  hotel, 

There  rose  a  dream  that  fills  my  heart  to  tell. 

I  came,  a  boy — it  seem'd  not  long  away — 

Close  to  my  father's  house  at  shut  of  day. 

I  cross'd  the  pasture  and  the  orchard  where 

Glimmer'd  the  cider-mill  in  golden  air ; 

The  faint,  soft  tremor  of  the  wandering  bell 

Of  cattle  mingled  with  the  old  clover-smell. 

I  leap'd  the  brook  that  twinkled  darkly  bright, 

And  saw  the  farm-house  dusk'd  in  mellow  light. 

The  river,  painted  with  the  Western  gleam, 


THE    LOST    FARM.  85 

Show'd  through  the  leaves  a  Paradisal  dream. 

By  the  side-door  my  father  met  me  then, 

My  mother  kiss'd  me  in  the  porch  again — 

A  moment  all  that  was  not  was  !     I  'woke 

And  through  my  window  saw  the  morning  smoke 

Of  the  loud  city.     And  my  dream,  behold, 

Was  on  the  spot  of  the  dear  hearth  of  old ! 

A  man's  vain  tears  hung  vague  within  my  eyes. 

The  Lost  Farm  underneath  the  city  lies. 


THE   FORGOTTEN   WELL. 

T)Y  the  old  high  road  I  find, 

(The  weeds  their  story  tell,) 
With  fallen  curb  and  fill'd  with  stones, 
A  long-forgotten  well. 

The  chimney,  crumbling  near, 

A  mute  historian  stands, 
Of  human  joy  and  human  woe — 

Far,  faded  fireside  bands  ! 

Here  still  the  apple  blows 

Its  bloom  of  rose-lit  snow  ; 
The  rose-tree  bless'd  some  gentle  hands 

With  roses,  long  ago. 
(86) 


THE    FORGOTTEN    WELL. 

I  can  not  choose  but  dream 

Of  all  thy  good  foredone  ; — 
Old  alms-giver,  thy  gifts  once  more 

Show  diamonds  in  the  sun ! 

From  yonder  vanish'd  home, 

Blithe  children  therein  born  ; 
The  mother  with  her  crowing  babe ; 

The  grands  ire  palsy- worn  ; 

Strong  men,  whose  weighted  limbs 
Falter  through  dust  and  heat ; 

Lithe  youths  in  dreamland  sowing  deeds  ; 
Shy  maidens  blushing  sweet ; 

The  reaper  from  his  sheaves  ; 
The  mower  from  his  hay — 


88  THE    FORGOTTEN    WELL. 

These  take  thy  freshness  in  their  hearts, 
And  pass — my  dream — away  ! 

Forgotten  by  the  throng, 

Uncared  for  and  unknown, 
None  seek  thee  through  the  wood  of  weeds 

Neglect  has  slowly  sown. 

Yet,  under  all,  thou'rt  there — 
Exhaustless,  pure,  and  cold — 

If  but  the  sunshine  came  to  see  ; 
The  fountain  ne'er  grows  old  ! 


APPLE-GATHERING. 

[~~*HE  beautiful  apples,  so  golden  and  mellow 

They  will  fall  at  a  kiss  of  the  breeze, 
While   it   breathes    through   the  foliage  frosty  and 

yellow 

And  the  sunshine  is  filling  the  trees ! 
Though  high  in   the  light  wind  they  gladly  would 

linger 

On  the  boughs  where  their  blossoms  were  found, 
Yet  they  drop  at  a  breath,  at  the  touch  of  a  finger 
They  shatter  their  cores  on  the  ground ! 

Through  the  morn  of  October  while  Autumn  is  trying 

With  all  things  to  make-believe  Spring, 

(89) 


9O  APPLE-GATHERING. 

How  the  leaves  of  the  orchard  around  us  are  fly 
ing  !— 

The  heavens  with  jubilee  ring  ! 
The  ladders  in  breezes  of  sunshine  are  swinging, 

The  farmer-boys  gladden  and  climb : 
To  gather   the  fruit    they  are    swaying  and    sing 
ing- 
Glad  hearts  to  glad  voices  keep  time ! 

Far  down  the  bright  air  they  are  happy  to  listen 

To  the  noise  of  the  mill  and  the  flail, 
And  the  waters  that  laugh  as  they  leap  and  they 
glisten 

From  the  dam  that  is  lighting  the  vale ! — 
The  wild  flutter  of  bells  that  so  dreamily  rises 

From  glades  where  the  cows  wander  slow, 
And  the  laughter  of  faces  in  childish  surprises 

When  the  wind  flings  an  apple  below ! 


APPLE-GATHERING.  9 1 

Oh,  see !  in  the  trees  that  are  drinking  the  splendor, 

How  the  gladness  of  boyhood  is  seen  ! — 
How  they  shake  all  the  branches  so  windy  and  slen 
der, 

And  a  quick  golden  rain  is  between ! 
High  and  higher  they  climb,  till  the  grasses  are  cover'd 

With  the  fruits  that  were  sweet  April  flowers, 
And  the  yellowing  leaves  that  all  over  them  hover'd 

Flutter  down  with  the  apples  in  showers ! 

The  harvests  are  garner'd,  the  meadows  are  burning, 

At  sunset,  in  golden  and  brown  ; 
The  apples  are  gather'd,  the  wagons  returning : 

The  Winter  may  bluster  and  frown ! 
The  blind-drifting  snows  may  make  barren  the  even, 

Dark  twilights  may  shiver  with  rain ; 
But  the  apples  and  cider  by  Summer  are  given — 

Give  Winter  to  Summer  again ! 


FARTHER. 

T^AR-OFF  a  young  State  rises,  full  of  might : 
I  paint  its  brave  escutcheon.     Near  at  hand 

See  the  log  cabin  in  the  rough  clearing  stand  ; 
A  woman  by  its  door,  with  steadfast  sight, 
Trustful,  looks  Westward,  where,  uplifted  bright, 

Some  city's  Apparition,  weird  and  grand, 

In  dazzling  quiet  fronts  the  lonely  land, 
With  vast  and  marvelous  structures  wrought  of  light, 
Motionless  on  the  burning  cloud  afar : — 

The  haunting  vision  of  a  time  to  be, 
After  the  heroic  age  is  ended  here, 
Built  on  the  boundless,  still  horizon's  bar 

By  the  low  sun,  his  gorgeous  prophecy 

Lighting  the  doorway  of  the  pioneer ! 

(92) 


TWO   HARVESTS. 


A    MOUND    IN    THE    PRAIRIES. 


A  LL  day  the  reapers  through  the  wheat 

Have  wrought  amid  the  sultry  heat, 
Reaping  the  harvest  wide  and  fleet. 


All  day  the  binders'  stooping  train 

Have  swelter'd  through  the  sweating  grain, 

Binding  the  bearded  sheaves  amain  : 

With  shouted  jest,  with  breaks  of  song, 
Lightening  their  heavy  toil  along, 
A  merry-hearted,  boisterous  throng ! 

But  now,  where  all  alone  I  stand, 
The  shocks  like  tents  of  gold  expand, 

The  camp  of  Plenty  in  the  Land ! 

(93) 


94  TWO    HARVESTS. 

Through  the  wide  solitude  around 
Shrills  but  the  empty  dream  of  sound  ; 
The  Hours  in  golden  sheaf  lie  bound. 

Bathed  in  the  crimsoning  hush  of  air, 
Yon  mound,  against  the  twilight  bare 
Breathes  from  a  deeper  twilight  there. 

The  long  grass  rustled,  year  by  year ; 
The  herded  bison  thunder'd  near ; 
Bounding  in  sunshine  flew  the  deer. 

The  summers  went,  the  summers  came — 
Years,  years,  years,  years  ! — and  all  the  same  ; 
November's  winding-sheet  was  flame ! 

The  trees  that  hedge  the  prairies  in 
Have  whispers  dim  of  what  has  been, 
Traditions  of  their  crumbled  kin. 


TWO    HARVESTS.  95 

Yon  mound  was  still  while  centuries  fled 
And  at  their  feet  forgot  their  dead ; 
Nothing  was  ask'd  and  nothing  said. 

Now,  vast  with  twilight's  glamoury, 
It  whispers  weirdly  unto  me ; 
Great  dusky  mirages  I  see. 

In  far-off  days  the  Atlantic  morn 
Came  not  to  find  a  world  new-born  ; 
Wide  fields  of  sunshine  shake  with  corn. 

Lo,  here  an  elder  harvest  land, 
With  many  another  reaper  band  ! — 
The  tents  of  Plenty  thickly  stand. 

All  day  the  binders'  stooping  train, 
Sweltering  through  the  sweating  grain, 
Bind  the  hot-bearded  sheaves  amain : 


96  TWO  HARVESTS. 

With  shouted  jest,  with  breaks  of  song, 
Lightening  their  heavy  toil  along, 
A  merry-hearted,  boisterous  throng ! 

And,  as  in  those  fair  fields  we  see, 
Through  Bible-gates  of  memory, 
In  the  high  East  shine  beauteously : 

Some  Boaz  owns  the  harvest  plain, 
Where,  following  the  reapers'  train, 
See,  Ruth,  the  gleaner,  walks  again ! 

Love,  that  had  flush'd  the  centuries, 
Lovely,  as  yonder,  dwells  with  these  ; 
And  Faith,  with  nations  at  her  knees  ' 

The  same  sun  shines,  the  same  earth  glows, 
With  the  same  transient  joys  and  woes 
The  last  man  as  the  first  man  knows. 


TWO    HARVESTS.  97 

For  Nature,  swarthy  mother,  warms 
(However  changed  their  faces,  forms,) 
One  human  family  in  her  arms  ! 

The  cattle  low  from  field  to  fold  ; 

The  harvesters  in  evening  gold 

Leave  the  dusk  shocks — the  tale  is  told ! 

The  silence  falls,  the  twilight  deep  ; 
Myriads  of  morns  the  grasses  creep 
Across  vast  solitudes  of  sleep. 

The  herded  bison  thunder'd  near  ; 
Bounding  in  sunshine  flew  the  deer ; 
The  long  grass  rustled  year  by  year. 

Wolf,  deer,  and  bison ! — lo  !  the  Wind, 
A  huntsman  wild,  to  mad  and  blind, 

Flinging  his  fiery  torch  behind ! 
G 


MOORE'S   CABIN, 
i. 

THE   SHADOW-LAND. 

"O  OUND  us  lies  a  Land  of  Shadow,  not  a  footstep 
echoes  o'er ; 

Song  of  peace  and  cry  of  battle  falter,  dying,  ever 
more. 

War-fires  in  the  vales  are  leaping,  with  the  glaring 

dance  of  war, 
But  the  fiercely-gleaming  faces  are  a  painted  dream 

afar. 

O'er  the  valley,  clothed  in  shadow,  sunlit  stands  the 

startled  deer, 
(98) 


MOORE'S  CABIN.  99 

From  the  cliff  against  the  morning  flashing   away, 
breath-like,  with  fear. 

Lo,  the  golden  light  of  morning  o'er  the  Land  of 

Shadow  cast, 
Where  the  tomahawk  is  buried  in  the  grave-mound 

of  the  Past ! 

Nothing  of  that  Land  remains,  now,  save  these  gray 

historic  trees, 
Shaking   through  their  glittering  branches  dews  of 

olden  memories ! 

ii. 

THE   RUIN. 

Here  among   the    greenery  hidden,  warder  of   that 

Shadow-Land, 
Near  the  noisy-trampled  highway,  see  the  old  dead 

chimney  stand  ! — 


IOO  MOORE  S    CABIN. 

Hidden  from  the  busy  highway  'mong  the  cherries 

large  and  low, 
Whose  new  blossoms  fill  the  breezes  with  a  gentle 

drift  of  snow  ! 

Dead  ! — no  more  a  flame  is  leaping  through  it  toward 

the  wintry  cold  ; 
Dead  ! — no  more  its  smoke  is  wreathing  woodlands 

deep  and  dim  and  old. 

Dead ! — no  more  its   azure  welcome  gladdens  eyes 

that  houseless  roam  ; 
Dead ! — no  more  it  seems  uplifting  incense  from  the 

heart  of  Home ! 

Gone  the  hands  that  shook  the  forest,  burying  in  the 

furrow'd  soil 
Careful  seeds  of  trust,  returning  harvest-guerdon  for 

their  toil. 


MOORE  S     CABIN.  IOI 

Gone  the  hearts  that  made  pale  faces,  when  the 
wolves  came  starved  with  cold, 

And  the  fireside  still  was  waiting  through  the  twi 
light  snows  of  old. 

Gone  the  homely  cabin-threshold,  with  the  feet  that 
cross'd  it  o'er  ; 

Gone  the  closely-gather'd  household,  with  their  dwell 
ing  low  and  poor. 

Yet  I  see  a  light  of  sparkles  redden  up  old  evenings 

wild, 
Like  the  fancies  sent  to  wander  up  the  chimney  by 

a  child. 

Hearts,  I  think,  there  may  be,  somewhere,  echoing 

through  the  vanish'd  door, 
Dreaming  dreams  returning,  hearing  footsteps  from 

the  crumbled  floor. 


IO2  MOORES    CABIN. 

Children,  whose  new  lives  were  darken'd  here  with 

shades  of  sudden  fears, 
May  be  children,  wandering  hither,  while  old  gray 

men  lose  their  years  ; 

They  may  hear  the   red-man's  voices  through  the 

night  the  silence  start, 
And,  awaking,  the  old  terror  shiver  newly  through 

the  heart. 

You  may  find  them  growing  weary,  faltering  through 

the  busy  lands, 
Wrinkled  by  the  years  their  faces,  shaken  by  the 

years  their  hands. 

Of  them  here  no  token  lingers,  save  the  chimney 

gray  and  low, 
With  a  gleam  of  lighted  faces  from  a  fireside  long 

ago! 


WALKING  TO  THE   STATION 

T  WANDER  down  the  woodland  lane, 
That  to  the  turnpike  greenly  steals  : 
[n  breathless  twilight  gold,  again, 

To  wait  the  far-approaching  wheels ; 
To  hear  the  driver's  horn  once  more 

Wind  all  around  the  river  wood, 
Shy  echoes  start  along  the  shore 

And  thrill  the  bosky  solitude. 

Here,  coming  back  last  night,  I  've  found, 

Of  folk  familiar  once,  how  few ! — 
Some,  blacken'd  names  in  graveyard  ground, 

Forgotten  on  the  farms  they  knew. 

(103) 


IO4  WALKING   TO   THE    STATION. 

In  our  quick  West  the  ruthless  plow 
Spares  not  dear  landmarks  to  displace ; 

The  old  Home,  so  long  regretted,  now 
Stared  at  me  with  a  stranger's  face ! 

Hark !  the  vague  hum  of  wheels  is  blown, 

Fitful,  across  the  evening  calm — 
No  ;  't  is  the  far-off  sound,  well  known 

To  boyish  ears,  of  Mower's  dam. 
I  started  later  than  I  ought, 

It  may  be,  and  the  stage  is  pass'd 

Fond  fancy  ! — disenchanting  thought, 

That  will  not  let  the  fancy  last ! 

Ah,  broken  dream  !     The  wheels  *io  more 
Ring  faint  beyond  the  Southern  hill ; 

No  longer  down  the  valley  roar, 
Waking  the  twilight  bridges  still  ; 


WALKING    TO    THE    STATION.  IO5 

No  more  the  lonely  farm  it  cheers 

To  see  the  tavern's  added  light — 
The  stage  is  gone  these  seventeen  years  ; 

I  walk  to  meet  the  train  to-night. 

Yet  here  's  the  crossing  (ne'er  a  trace 

Of  the  old  toll-gate  toward  the  mill) — 
The  parting  and  the  meeting  place, 

Dear,  dear  to  homesick  memory  still ! 
Oh,  schoolboy-time  of  joy  and  woe, 

Of  sad  farewells,  of  blithe  returns ! — 
I  feel  again  the  pang  to  go, 

The  homeward  rapture  in  me  burns  ! 

A  sound  grows  busy  with  the  breeze, 

A  nearing  roar,  a  glancing  light, 
A  tremor  through  yon  darkling  trees — 

The  fiery  pant,  the  rushing  might ! 


IO6  WALKING   TO    THE    STATION. 

The  head-light  glares,  the  whistle  screams ; 

I  cross  the  field,  the  platform  gain. 
Give  back,  for  old  regrets  and  dreams, 

Warm  love  and  dear  ones,  flying  train ! 


TRANSFIGURATION. 

CRIMSONING  the  woodlands  dumb  and  hoary, 

V^ 

Bleak  with  long  November  winds  and  rains, 

Lo,  at  sunset,  breathes  a  sudden  glory, 
Breaks  a  fire  on  all  the  western  panes ! 

Eastward  far  I  see  the  restless  splendor 

.   Shine  through  many  a  window-lattice  bright ; 

Nearer  all  the  farm-house  gables  render 

Flame  for  flame,  and  melt  in  breathless  light. 

Many  a  mansion,  many  a  cottage  lowly, 
Lost  in  radiance,  palpitates  the  same 
At  the  touch  of  Beauty  strange  and  holy, 

All  transfigured  in  the  evening  flame. 

(107) 


io8 


TRANSFIGURATION. 


Luminous,  within, — a  marvelous  vision, — 
Things  familiar  half-unreal  show; 

In  the  effluence  of  Land  Elysian, 
Every  bosom  feels  a  holier  glow. 

Faces  lose,  as  at  some  wondrous  portal, 

Earthly  masks,  and  heavenly  features  wear; 

Many  a  mother,  like  a  saint  immortal, 
Folds  her  child,  a  haloed  angel  fair ! 


OTHER    POEMS. 


THE   GOLDEN   HAND. 

T     O,  from  the  city's  heat  and  dust 

A  Golden  Hand  forever  thrust. 
Uplifting  from  a  spire  on  high 
A  shining  finger  in  the  sky! 

I  see  it  when  the  morning  brings 
Fresh  tides  of  life  to  living  things, 
And  the  great  world  awakes:  behold, 
That  lifted  Hand  in  morning  gold ! 

I  see  it  when  the  noontide  beats 
Pulses  of  fire  in  busy  streets ; 
The  dust  flies  in  the  flaming  air: 
Above,  that  quiet  Hand  is  there. 


112  THE    GOLDEN    HAND. 

I  see  it  when  the  twilight  clings 
To  the  dark  earth  with  hovering  wings: 
Flashing  with  the  last  fluttering  ray, 
That  Golden  Hand  remembers  day. 

The  midnight  comes  —  the  holy  hour; 
The  city,  like  a  giant  flower, 
Sleeps  full  of  dew :  that  Hand,  in  light 
Of  moon  and  stars,  how  weirdly  bright! 

Below,  in  many  a  noisy  street, 
Are  toiling  hands  and  striving  feet ; 
The  weakest  rise,  the  strongest  fall: 
That  equal  Hand  is  over  all. 

Below,  in  courts  to  guard  the  land, 
Gold  buys  the  tongue  and  binds  the  hand ; 
Dropping  in  God's  great  scales  the  gold, 
That  awful  Hand,  above,  behold ! 


THE    GOLDEN    HAND.  113 


Below,  the  Sabbaths  walk  serene 
With  the  great  dust  of  days  between ; 
Preachers  within  their  pulpits  stand : 
See,  over  all,  that  heavenly  Hand ! 

But  the  hot  dust,  in  crowded  air 
Below,  arises  never  there  :  — 
O  speech  of  one  who  can  not  speak! 
O  Sabbath-witness  of  the  Week! 
CINCINNATI,  OHIO,  1859. 


THE   MORNING   STREET. 

A  LONE  I  walk  the  Morning  Street, 

Filled  with  the  silence  vague  and  sweet 
All  seems  as  strange,  as  still,  as  dead; 
As  if  unnumbered  years  had  fled, 
Letting  the  noisy  Babel  lie 
Breathless  and  dumb  against  the  sky. 
The  light  wind  walks  with  me,  alone, 
Where  the  hot  day,  flame-like,  was  blown; 
Where  the  wheels  roared,  the  dust  was  beat :  — 

The  dew  is  in  the  Morning  Street ! 
(114) 


THE    MORNING    STREET. 

Where  are  the  restless  throngs  that  pour 

Along  this  mighty  corridor 

While  the  noon  shines?  —  the  hurrying  crowd 

Whose  footsteps  make  the  city  loud?  — 

The  myriad  faces,  hearts  that  beat 

No  more  in  the  deserted  street? 

Those  footsteps,  in  their  dreaming  maze, 

Cross  thresholds  of  forgotten  days ; 

Those  faces  brighten  from  the  years 

In  rising  suns  long  set  in  tears ; 

Those  hearts  —  far  in  the  Past  they  beat, 

Unheard  within  the  Morning  Street ! 

Some  city  of  the  world's  gray  prime, 
Lost  in  some  desert  far  from  Time, 
Where  noiseless  ages,  gliding  through, 
Have  only  sifted  sand  and  dew, — 
Yet  a  mysterious  hand  of  man 


Il6  THE   MORNING   STREET. 

Lying  on  all  the  haunted  plan, 
The  passions  of  the  human  heart 
Quickening  the  marble  breast  of  Art, — 
Were  not  more  strange,  to  one  who  first 
Upon  its  ghostly  silence  burst, 
Than  this  vast  quiet,  where  the  tide 
Of  Life,  upheaved  on  either  side, 
Hangs  trembling,  ready  soon  to  beat 
With  human  waves  the  Morning  Street ! 

Ay,  soon  the  glowing  morning  flood 
Breaks  through  the  charmed  solitude : 
This  silent  stone,  to  music  won, 
Shall  murmur  to  the  rising  sun ; 
The  busy  place,  in  dust  and  heat, 
Shall  roar  with  wheels  and  swarm  with  feet; 
The  Arachne-threads  of  Purpose  stream, 
Unseen,  within  the  morning  gleam ; 


THE    MORNING    STREET.  1 1/ 

The  life  shall  move,  the  death  be  plain ; 
The  bridal  throng,  the  funeral  train, 
Together,  face  to  face,  shall  meet 
And  pass,  within  the  Morning  Street! 

1858. 


TO  MY  BROTHER  GUY, 

CHASING   BUTTERFLIES. 

T  HAVE  watched  you,  little  Guy, 

Chasing  many  a  butterfly  ; 
I  have  seen  you,  boy,  by  stealth 
Strive  to  pluck  the  flying  wealth 
From  the  blossoms  where  it  grew, 
Miracle  of  a  moment  new ; 
I  have  seen  your  reddened  face, 
Radiant  from  the  bootless  chase, 
Happy-eyed,  with  gladness  sweet 
Laugh  away  each  late  defeat  ; 
I  have  heard  your  panting  heart, 
Eager  for  another  start, 


(118) 


TO    MY    BROTHER   GUY.  119 

Taking  newer  chances  fair 

For  the  elusive  flower  of  air. 

I  '11  not  check  your  joyous  chase, 

Calling  it  a  useless  race ; 

I  will  not  discourage  you 

With  experience  seeming-true ; 

I  '11  not  whisper,  prophesying, 

That  the  wings  are  golden,  flying — 

Dropping  all  their  pretty  dust 

At  the  touch  of  the  sweet  trust : 

— Words  of  warm  simplicity, 

Fusing  cold  philosophy, 

These  would  light  your  lips  and  brow — 

You  would  chase  them  anyhow ! 

Chase  them,  fleet-foot  champion, 

Lithe  knight-errant  of  the  sun  ! 

Chase  the  sultry  butterflies, 

Tropic  summers  in  disguise ! 


I2O  TO   MY   BROTHER   GUY. 

Chase  them,  while  your  buoyant  feet 
Take  the  heart's  ecstatic  beat, 
While  your  playmate  is  the  breeze, 
While  the  flowers  will  hide  the  bees, 
While  the  birds  come  singing  to  you, 
While  the  sunshine  gladdens  through  you! 
Butterflies,  if  caught  or  not, 
Thorough  many  a  gentle  spot 
They  will  lead — though  vain  the  chase, 
It  must  be  in  the  heaven's  face : 
For  they  fly  among  the  flowers, 
In  bright  air,  through  sunny  hours. 
Chase  them — nothing 's  dead  nor  dying  : 
Look,  your  butterflies  are  flying ! 


THE  THREE  WORK-DAYS. 

OO  much  to  do,  so  little  done! 

In  sleepless  eyes  I  saw  the  sun ; 
His  beamless  disk  in  darkness  lay, 
The  dreadful  ghost  of  YESTERDAY  ! 

So  little  done,  so  much  to  do! 
The  morning  shone  on  harvests  new ; 
In  eager  light  I  wrought  my  way, 
And  breathed  the  spirit  of  TO-DAY  ! 

So  much  to  do,  so  little  done ! 
The  toil  is  past,  the  rest  begun  ; 
Though  little  done,  and  much  to  do, 
TO-MORROW  Earth  and  Heaven  are  new ! 

(121) 


THE  LOST  GENIUS. 

A     GIANT  came  to  me  when  I  was  young, 

My  instant  will  to  ask — 
My  earthly  Servant,  from  the  earth  he  sprung 
Eager  for  any  task ! 

"  What  wilt  thou,  O  my  Master  ? "  he  began  ; 

"Whatever  can  be,"  I. 
"  Say  thy  first  wish — whate'er  thou  wilt  I  can," 

The  Strong  Slave  made  reply. 

"  Enter  the  earth  and  bring  its  riches  forth, 

For  pearls  explore  the  sea." 
He  brought,  from  East  and  West  and  South  and  North, 

All  treasures  back  to  me ! 

(122) 


THE    LOST    GENIUS.  123 

"  Build  me  a  palace  wherein  I  may  dwell." 

"Awake  and  see  it  done," 
Spake  his  great  voice  at  dawn.     Oh,  miracle 

That  glitter'd  in  the  sun ! 

"  Find  me  the  princess  fit  for  my  embrace, 

The  vision  of  my  breast ; 
For  her  search  every  clime  and  every  race." 

My  yearning  arms  were  bless'd ! 

"  Get  me  all  knowledge."     Sages  with  their  lore, 

And  poets  with  their  songs, 
Crowded  my  palace  halls  at  every  door, 

In  still,  obedient  throngs ! 

"  Now  bring  me  wisdom."     Long  ago  he  went ; 
(The  cold  task  harder  seems  :) 


124  THE    LOST    GENIUS. 

He  did  not  hasten  with  the  last  content — 
The  rest,  meanwhile,  were  dreams ! 

Houseless  and  poor,  on  many  a  trackless  road, 

Without  a  guide,  I  found 
A  white-hair'd  phantom,  with  the  world  his  load 

Bending  him  to  the  ground ! 

"  I  bring  thee  wisdom,  Master."     Is  it  he. 

I  marvel'd  then,  in  sooth? 
"Thy  palace-builder,  beauty-seeker,  sec  1  " 

I  saw  the  Ghost  of  Youth  i 


THE  UNBENDED  BOW. 

N  some  old  realm,  we  read,  when  war  had 


The  bended  bow,  a  warlike  sign,  was  sent 
Across  the  land — a  summoner  fierce  but  dumb  ; 
When  peace  returned  the  bow  was  passed 
unbent. 

O  sacred  Land  !  not  many  years  ago 

(The  symbol  breathes  its  meaning  evermore), 

Thy  holy  summons,  came  the  bended  bow — 
Thy  fiery  bearers  moved  from  door  to  door. 

Then  sprang  thy  brave  from  threshold  and  from 
hearth  ; 

Their  angry  footsteps  sounded,  moving  far, 

(125) 


126  THE   UNBENDED    BOW. 

As  when  an  earthquake  moves  across  the  earth  ; 
Shone  on  thy  hills  the  flame-lit  tents  of  war. 

O  tender  wife,  in  all  thy  weakness  stern 

With  the  great  purpose  which  thy  husband 

drew ; 
O  mother,  dreaming  of  thy  son's  return, 

Strong  with   the    arm   whose    strength   thy 
country  knew ; 

O  maiden,  proud  to  hold  a  hero's  name 

Close  in  thy  prayerful  silence,  blameless  :  lo, 

Transfigured  in  the  light  of  love  and  fame, 
They  come,  the  bearers  of  the  unbended  bow  ! 

1865. 


CARPE   DIEM. 

r  I  ^O-DAY  I  can  not  choose  but  share 
The  indolence  of  earth  and  air  ; 

In  dreamful  languor  lying, 
I  see,  like  thistle-flowers  that  sail 
Adown  some  hazed  autumnal  vale, 

The  Hours  to  Lethe"  flying. 

The  hour-glass  twinkles  in  the  sun  ; 
Unchanged  its  ceaseless  course  is  run 

Through  ever-changeful  weathers— 
"  Time  flies"  its  motto:  'tis  no  crime, 
I  think,  to  pluck  the  wings  of  Time, 

And  sleep  upon  his  feathers ! 

("7) 


A  ROSE'S  JOURNEY. 

T_  T  ASTE  on  your  gentle  journey,  sent 
To  sweetest  goal  flower  ever  went : 
Ah  me,  that  can  not  follow  close — 
But  my  heart  runs  before  you,  rose ! 

O  happy  rose,  I  envy  you — 

But  sweetness  makes  such  sweet  grace  due: 

First  to  her  lips  one  moment  press'd, 

Then  your  long  Heaven  on  her  dear  breast ! 
(128) 


TAKING  THE  NIGHT  TRAIN. 

A    TREMULOUS   word,    a    lingering   hand,   the 

/\ 

burning 

Of  restless  passion  smouldering — so  we  part. 
Ah,  slowly  from  the  dark  the  world  is  turning 
When  midnight  stars  shine  in  a  heavy  heart. 

The  streets  are  lighted,  and  the  myriad  faces 

Move  through  the  gaslight,  and  the  homesick  feet 

Pass  by  me,  homeless  ;  sweet  and  close  embraces 
Charm  many  a  threshold — laughs  and  kisses  sweet. 

From  great  hotels  the  stranger  throng  is  streaming, 
The  hurrying  wheels  in  many  a  street  are  loud  ; 
Within  the  depot,  in  the  gaslight  gleaming, 

A  glare  of  faces,  stands  the  waiting  crowd. 

(129) 


I3O  TAKING   THE    NIGHT    TRAIN. 

The  whistle  screams  ;  the  wheels  are  rumbling  slowly, 
The  path  before  us  glides  into  the  light  : 

Behind,  the  city  sinks  in  silence  wholly ; 
The  panting  engine  leaps  into  the  night. 

I  seem  to  see  each  street  a  mystery  growing, 
In  mist  of  dreamland — vague,  forgotten  air  : 

Does  no  sweet  soul,  awakened,  feel  me  going  ? — 
Loves  no  dear  heart,  in  dreams,  to  keep  me  there  ? 


CONFLAGRATION. 

i. 

LAYING  with  little  children  on  the  hearth, 
An  hour  ago — 
With  fitful  mirth 

Their  gentle  eyes  were  lighted — lo!  the  Flame, 
Like  a  lithe  Fairy,  to  their  fancies  came, 
Whispering  whispers  low  ! 

ii. 

All  sleep.     The  harmless  Fairy  wakes  and  chases 
Across  the  floor,  and  from  the  darkness  crawls, 

Clambering  up  the  walls, 
And  looks  into  the  children's  sleeping  faces  : 

Now  through  the  window  shines 

On  the  dew-burden'd  vines ; 


1 3  2  CONFLAGRATION. 

Then,  Fiend-like,  leaps, 

Aloof, 

Upon  the  roof  1 
The  city  sleeps. 
It  waves  its  myriad  hands, 
And  laughs  and  dances,  a  maniac  lost  from  bands ! 

in. 

The  scared  bells  ring!  — 
All  sleepers,  wakening,  start 

With  fluttering  heart ! 
Look !  the  gigantic  Thing 
The  unimprison'd  Fury,  tosses  high 
Bloodiest  arms  against  the  frighten'd  sky, 
O'er  streets  that  glare  with  men !  Midnight  gives  way 

To  the  flame-cradled  day ! 
White  Fear  and  red  Confusion  mingle  cries  : 
"Arise!  arise! 


CONFLAGRATION.  133 

The  city  is  in  flame!" 

The  hearth-born  Terror  keeps  its  hurrying  march, 
The  world  aghast  before,  the  clouds  its  victory-arch, 
(The  Lards  on  their  altars  die, 

The  wives  and  children  fly  :) 

And  ashes  are  its  fame  ! 


THE  NEW  HOUSE. 
i. 

THE   BUILDING. 

A     STRANGER  in  the  village  street, 

Shines  the  new  house  in  morning  light- 
No  quick  enchantment  sprung  by  night, 
A  vision  for  the  sun,  complete, 
Like  that  the  Arabian  story  shows  : 
For  the  slow  toil  of  hours  and  days, 
With  steadfast  hands  and  stalwart  blows, 
Wrought  with  the  builder's  brain,  to  raise 
This  temple,  yet  unconsecrate, 
Of  Home  and  Household  Deities, 
The  stronghold  of  Domestic  Peace, 
Familiar  Church  and  private  State ! 


THE    NEW    HOUSE.  135 

The  builder  he  has  watch'd  it  long, 
Since  first  the  pencil-plan  was  made 
And  the  deep  under-stone  was  laid, 
The  fast  foundation  firm  and  strong, 
Through  slow  processes,  day  by  day, 
While  floors  were  fix'd  and  rafters  hung 
Till  now — the  workmen  pass'd  away— 
He  wakes  from  slumber,  blithe  and  young 
Behold,  at  last,  his  work  is  done — 
His  house-in-air  no  longer  dream, 
Illumined  by  the  morning  gleam, 
Transfigured  by  the  rising  sun  ! 

ii. 

THE   DWELLERS. 

Come  at  Morning — you  shall  see 
What  a  blissful  company 
Enter  in  the  open  door ! 


THE   NEW   HOUSE. 

Children,  children,  evermore, 
Dancing,  singing,  laughing,  play, 
Making  merry  holiday — 
Happy  faces,  garments  gay  ! — 
Introducing  Fairy-land, 
Back  to  barren  desert  sand 
Bringing  flowers  flown  from  earth 
The  long  coming-in  of  Birih ! 

Come  at  Midnight — you  shall  see 
What  a  ghostly  company 
Pass  from  out  the  open  door  ! 
Old  men,  old  men,  evermore, 
Wrinkled,  dusty,  travel-spent, 
Burden-bearers  bow'd  and  bent, 
Songless,  sighing,  halting:,  slow, 
In  funereal  garments  go, 
But,  upon  the  threshold,  lo ! 


THE    NEW    HOUSE.  137 


Sudden  children,  vanish  there, 
Lost  in  light  and  lifting  air, 
Beautiful  with  blissful  breath  : 
The  long  going-forth  of  Death ! 


THE  FIRST  TRYST. 

OHE  pulls  a  rose  from  her  rose-tree, 

Kissing  its  soul  to  him — 
Far  over  years,  far  over  dreams, 
And  tides  of  chances  dim. 

He  plucks  from  his  heart  a  poem; — 
A  flower-sweet  messenger, 

Far  over  years,  far  over  dreams, 
Flutters  its  soul  to  her. 

These  are  the  world-old  lovers, 

Clasped  in  one  twilight's  gleam : 
Yet  he  is  but  a  dream  to  her, 

And  she  a  poet's  dream. 
(138) 


ROSE  AND  ROOT. 

A   FABLE  OF   TWO   LIVES. 

r  I  ^HE  Rose  aloft  in  sunny  air, 

Beloved  alike  by  bird  and  bee, 
Takes  for  the  dark  Root  little  care, 
That  toils  below  it  ceaselessly. 

I  put  my  question  to  the  flower : 

"  Pride  of  the  Summer,  garden  queen, 

Why  livest  thou  thy  little  hour?" 

And  the  Rose  answered,  "  I  am  seen. ' 

I  put  my  question  to  the  Root — 

"  I  mine  the  earth  content,"  it  said, 
"A  hidden  miner  underfoot ; 

I  know  a  Rose  is  overhead." 

d39) 


THE  LOST  HORIZON. 

T  STOOD  at  evening  in  the  crimson  air : 

The  trees  shook  off  their  dusky  twilight 

glow; 

The  wind  took  up  old  burdens  of  despair. 
And  moaned  like  Atlas  with  his  world  of 
woe. 

Like  the  great  circle  of  a  bronzed  ring, 

That  clasped  the  vision  of  the  vanished  day, 

I  saw  the  vague  horizon  vanishing 
Around  me  into  darkness,  far  away. 

Then,  while  the  night  came  fast  with  cloudy 
roar, 

Lo,  all  about  me,  rays  of  hearths  unknown 
(140) 


THE   LOST   HORIZON.  141 

Sprang  from  the  gloom  with  light  unseen  before, 
And  made  a  warm  horizon  of  their  own. 

I  sighed :  "  The  wanderer  in  the  desert  sees 
Strange  ghosts  of  summer  lands  arising,  sweet 

With  restless  waters,  green  with  gracious  trees 
Whose  shadows  beckon  welcome  to  his  feet. 

"  For  erst,  where  now  the  desert  far  away 
Stretches  a  wilderness  of  hopeless  sand, 

Clasping  fair  fields  and  sunburnt  harvests  lay 
The  heavenly  girdles  of  a  fruitful  land." 

I  thought  of  a  sweet  mirage  now  no  more  : 
Warm  windows  radiant  with  a  dancing  flame — 

Dear  voices  heard  within  a  happy  door — 
A  face  that  to  the  darkness,  lighted,  came. 


142  THE   LOST   HORIZON. 

No  hearth  of  mine  was  waiting,  near  or  far ; 

No  threshold  for  my  coming  footstep  yearned 
To  touch  its  slumber ;  no  warm  window  star, 

The  tender  Venus,  to  my  longing  burned. 

The  darkened  windows  slowly  lost  their  fire, 
But  shimmered  with  the  ghostly  ember  light : 

A  wanderer,  with  old  embers  of  desire, 
The  lost  horizon  held  me  in  the  night 


MY  NIGHTMARE. 

A   LL  day  my  nightmare  in  my  thought  I  keep : 
Spell-bound, it  seemed,by  some  magician's  charm, 

A  giant  slumbered  on  my  slothful  arm — 
His  great,  slow  breathings  jarred  the  land  of  sleep 
(Like  far-off  thunder,  rumbling  low  and  deep), 

Lifting  his  brawny  bosom  bronzed  and  warm  ; — 

When  lo!  a  voice  shook  me  with  stern  alarm: 
"  Who  art  thou  here  that  dost  not  sow  nor  reap  ? 

Behold  the  Sleeping  Servant  of  thy  Day — 
Arouse  him  to  thy  deed :  if  thou  but  break 

His  slumberous  spell,  awake  he  will  obey." 
I  lifted  up  my  voice  and  cried,  "  Awake !" 
And  I  awoke  ! — my  arm,  unnerved,  lay  dead, 

A  useless  thing  beneath  my  sleeping  head  ! 

(143) 


MARIAN'S  FIRST  HALF-YEAR. 

TV  /T  AIDEN  MARIAN,  born  in  May, 

When  the  earth  with  flowers  was  gay, 
And  the  Hours  by  day  and  night 
Wore  the  jewels  of  delight : 
Half  a  year  has  vanished  by 
Like  a  wondrous  pageantry — 
Mother  May  with  fairy  flowers, 
June  with  dancing  leaf-crowned  Hours, 
July  red  with  harvest  rust, 
Swarthy  August  white  with  dust, 
Mild  September  clothed  in  gold, 

Wise  October,  hermit  old — 

(144) 


MARIAN'S  FIRST  HALF-YEAR.  145 

And  the  world,  so  new  and  strange, 
Circled  you  in  olden  change, 
Since  the  miracle-morn  of  birth 
Made  your  May-day  on  the  earth. 
Half  a  year,  sweet  child,  has  brought 
To  your  eyes  the  soul  of  thought ; 
To  your  lips,  with  cries  so  dumb, 
Baby-syllables  have  come, 

Dreams  of  fairy  language  known 

To  your  mother's  heart  alone — 

Paradisal  words  complete 

(To  old  Adam  obsolete) ; 

You  have  learned  expressions  strange, 

Miracles  of  facial  change, 

Winning  gestures,  supplications, 

Stamped  entreaties,  exhortations — 

Oratory  eloquent 

Where  no  more  is  said  than  meant ; 


146  MARIAN'S  FIRST  HALF-YEAR. 

You  have  lived  philosophies 
Older  far  than  Socrates — 
Holiest  life  you  Ve  understood 
Better  than  oldest  wise  and  good  : 
Such  as  erst  in  Eden's  light 
Shunned  not  God's  nor  angels'  sight ; 
You  have  caught  with  subtler  eyes 
Close  Pythagorean  ties 
In  the  bird  and  in  the  tree, 
And  in  everything  you  see  ; 
You  have  found  and  practise  well 
(Moulding  life  of  principle) 
Epicurean  doctrines  old 
Of  the  Hour's  fruit  of  gold  : 
Lifted,  Moses-like  you  stand, 
Looking,  where  the  Promised  Land 
Dazzles  far  away  your  sight — 
Milk-and-honey's  your  delight ! 


MARIAN'S  FIRST  HALF-YEAR.  147 

Maiden  Marian,  born  in  May, 
Half  a  year  has  passed  away  ; 
Half  a  year  of  cannon-pealing 
('Twas  your  era  of  good  feeling), 
You  have  scarce  heard  dreader  sound 
Than  those  privateers  around, 
Buzzing  flies,  a  busy  brood, 
Lovers  of  sweet  babyhood — 
Than  the  hum  of  lullaby, 
Rocked  to  dreamland  tenderly  ; 
Half  a  year  of  dreadest  sights 
Through  bright  days  and  fairy  nights, 
You  have  seen  no  dreader  thing 
Than  the  marvel  of  a  wing, 
Than  the  leaves  whose  shadows  warm 
Played  in  many  a  phantom  swarm 
On  the  floor,  the  table  under, 
Lighting  your  small  face  with  wonder  ! 


148  MARIAN'S  FIRST  HALF-YEAR. 

Maiden  Marian,  born  in  May, 
Half  a  year  has  passed  away  : 
'Tis  a  dark  November  day  ; 
Lifted  by  our  window,  lo  ! 
Washington  is  whirled  in  snow ! 
But,  within,  the  fluttering  flame 
Keeps  you  summer-warm  the  same, 
And  your  mother  (while  I  write), 
Crimsoned  by  the  ember  light, 
Murmurs  sweeter  things  to  you 
Than  I  'd  write  a  half-year  through  : 
Baby-lyrics,  lost  to  art, 
Found  within  a  mother's  heart. 

Maiden  Marian,  born  in  May, 
I  '11  not  question  Time  to-day 
For  the  mysteries  of  your  morrows, 
Girlhood's  joys  or  woman's  sorrows, 
But  (while — side  by  side,  alone — 


MARIANS    FIRST    HALF-YEAR.  149 

We  recall  your  summer  flown, 
And,  with  eyes  that  cannot  look, 
Hold  his  clasped  Mystery-Book) 
I  will  trust  when  May  is  here 
He  shall  measure  you  a  year, 
With  another  half-year  sweet 
Make  the  ring  of  light  complete : 
We  will  date  our  New- Years  thence, 
Full  of  summer  songs  and  sense — 
All  the  years  begun  that  day 
Shall  be  born  and  die  in  May ! 

WASHINGTON,  November  *] th,  1862. 


AWAKE  IN  DARKNESS. 

TV  /T  OTHER,  if  I  could  cry  from  out  the  night 

And  you  could  come  (O  tearful  memory !) 
How  softly  close  !  to  soothe  and  comfort  me, 
As  when  a  child  awakened  with  affright, 
My  lips  again,  as  weak  and  helpless  quite, 
Would  call  you,  call  you,  sharp  and  plaintively — 
Ah  me !  in  vain !     Your  face  I  should  not  see  ; 
Your  voice  no  more  would  bring  my  darkness  light. 
To  this  shut  room,  though  I  should  wail  and  weep, 
You  would  not  come  to  speak  one  brooding  word 
And  let  its  comfort  warm  me  into  sleep 
And  leave  me  dreaming  of  its  comfort  heard  : 
Though  all  the  night  to  morn  at  last  should  creep, 
My  cry  would  fail,  your  answer  be  deferred. 

November  1865. 
(150) 


BREVIA. 

A   CERTAIN   CONSERVATIVE. 

HE  holds  a  chrysalis  aloft,  infirm, 
Forgetting  wings  have  borne  away  the  worm. 

THE   MICROSCOPE  AND   TELESCOPE. 

LOOK  down  into  the  Microscope,  and  know 
The  boundless  wonder  in  the  hidden  small ; 

Look  up  into  the  Telescope,  and,  lo ! 
The  hidden  greatness  in  the  boundless  all ! 

A  DIAL  AT  A  GRAVE. 

To  number  sunny  hours  by  shadows,  why 

Here  is  the  dial  shown, 
Where  from  the  Sunshine  of  Eternity 

The  Shadow,  Time,  has  flown? 


152  BREVIA. 

A   STATUE   OF   JUPITER   BY   PHIDIAS. 
( Version  from  the  Greek  Anthology.') 

EITHER  Jove  came  to  earth  from  Heaven  to  show 

His  very  self  to  thee, 
Or,  Phidias,  thou  from  earth  to  Heaven  didst  go, 

The  god  himself  to  see. 

A  FLOWER  IN   A  BOOK. 
THE  withered  flower  shall  raise 
A  ghost  of  vanished  days  : — 
From  crumbled  leaves  a  rose, 

All  fragrant-souled,  shall  rise 
I 

Within  the  heart  and  eyes 

Of  one  who,  dreaming,  knows 
The  dust  that  was  a  rose ! 

KEEPING  A   ROSE'S   COMPANY. 

(A  Persian  Fable.) 
A  TRAVELLER,  toiling  on  a  weary  way, 

Found  in  his  path  a  piece  of  fragrant  clay. 


BREVIA.  153 

"  This  seems  but  common  earth,"  says  he  ;  "  but  how 

Delightful ! — it  is  full  of  sweetness  now ! 

— Whence  is  thy  fragrance  ? "     From  the  clay  there 

grows 
A  voice,  "  1  have  been  very  near  a  rose." 

TORCH-LIGHT   IN  AUTUMN. 

I  LIFT  this  sumach-bough  with  crimson  flare, 
And,  touched  with  subtle  pangs  of  dreamy  pain, 

Through  the  dark  wood  a  torch  I  seem  to  bear 
In  Autumn's  funeral  train. 

A  FRIENDLY   WISH. 
(To  M.  ff.,  on  his  Silver  Wedding- Day.) 

TAKE  my  warm  wish  for  this  your  happy  Day, — 
Sweet  with  spent  griefs,  if  glad  with  joys  unspent, 

Remembering  that  one  happier  far  away ; 
And  let  wild  March  bear  flower  of  heart's-content 


1 54  BREVIA. 

For  you,  while  the  white  sun,  now  noon-beholden, 
Sinks  slow,  until  your  Silver  Day  be  Golden ! 

WINTER   SUNSET. 

THE  winter  day  is  done : 
From  early  morn  blown  over  restless  crowds 
Of  slow-advancing  clouds, 
With  chilly  azure-lighted  intervals, 
Now,  low  and  large  beneath  their  lifted  veil, 

Breathlessly  bright,  the  sun 
Against  the  eastern  distance  falls, 
Reddening  the  far  forests,  empty  and  cold, 
Whence  the  dumb  river  draws  its  icy  trail 
Through  valley-farms  the  barren  hills  enfold, 
And  on  the  slope,  under  the  spark-like  spire, 
The  village  windows  shiver,  all  a-fire  ! 


THE  MONK'S  VISION  OF  CHRIST. 

"OEHOLD,  unto  a  monk  the  vision  grew 

Of  Him  who  waits  for  all,  his  loving  Lord, 
Him  who,  all-suffering,  all  patience  knew, 
And  wore   the   crown   of  Hate   for   Love's 
reward. 

The  perfect  vision  of  most  holy  light, 

The  Guest  of  man,  unto  His  follower  dear, 

Gave  (He  who  gave  the  blind  his  mortal  sight) — 
Immortal  light  to  see  his  Master  near. 

Long  gazed  the  monk  ;  his  rapture  grew  the 

more  : 

The    Sight    remained,   nor    grew   his    soul 
content, 


156  THE   MONK'S   VISION   OF   CHRIST. 

Till  in  his  heart  a  message  from  the  poor, 
Fed  by  his  bounty,  whispered,  and  he  went. 

His  duty  called,  Christ's  own  beloved  care, 
While,  in  his  room,  Christ  seemed  Himself 
to  stay; 

But  Christ  was  in  his  heart :  so,  keeping  there 
The  vision  sweet,  he  walked  his  Master's  way. 

He  walked  His  way,  fulfilling,  as  he  went, 
His  Master's  word  and  unforgotten  will: 

Returning — heaven-rewarded,  self-content — 
Lo,  the  dear  vision  waited  for  him  still ! 

"  Thy  Will  be  done,"  in  many  a  prayer  before 
His  heart  had  uttered.     Lo,  the  Vision  said 

(His  Will  being  done  who  visits  still  the  poor), 
Lowly:  "  Hadst  thou  remained,  I  must  have 
fled." 


SLEEP. 

'T^HE  mist  crawls  over  the  river, 

Hiding  the  shore  on  either  side, 
And,  under  the  veiling  mist  for  ever, 
Neither  hear  we  nor  feel  we  the  tide. 

But  our  skiff  has  the  will  of  the  river, 
Though  nothing  is  seen  to  be  passed  ; 

Though  the  mist  may  hide  it  for  ever,  for  ever 
The  current  is  drawing  as  fast. 

The  matins  sweet  from  the  far-off  town 

Fill  the  air  with  their  beautiful  dream ; 
The  vespers  were  hushing  the  twilight  down 

When  we  lost  our  oars  on  the  stream. 

(i57) 


HOME  LONGING. 

T  LONG  for  thee,  O  native  Western  Land  ! 

I  long  for  thy  full  rivers,  moving  slow 
In  their  old  dream,  that  changes  not  but  takes 
The  ever-changing  vision  of  the  air  ; 
I  long  for  these,  the  kinsmen  of  my  youth, 
And  thy  vast  woodlands,  murmuring  weirdly  still 
Lost  Indian  legends,  and  thy  prairies,  where 
The  bison's  thunder,  sinking  far  and  vague, 
Grows  loud  and  near,  and  is  the  hurrying  train. 


(158) 


THE  DARK  STREET. 

WEARY  feet  that  fill  the  nightly  air ! 
No  hearts  I  hear,  no  faces  see  above ; — 
I  feel  your  single  yearning,  everywhere, 
Moving  the  way  of  Love ! 

For  ever  crowding  weary,  one  by  one 
Ye  pass  no  more  through  all  the  shadowy  air ; 

The  footsteps  cease  on  thresholds  dearly  lone — 
Quick  hearts,  glad  faces  there ! 

There  all  the  voices  of  the  heart  arise, 

Unheard  along  the  darkling  street  before  ; 
The  faces  light  their  loving  lips  and  eyes, 

The  footsteps  are  no  more ! 

(i59) 


TWO  WATCHERS. 

r  I  ^WO  ships  sail  on  the  ocean  ; 

Two  watchers  walk  the  shore 
One  wrings  wild  hands  and  cries, 
"Farewell  for  evermore." 

One  sees,  with  face  uplifted, 
(Soft  homes  of  dream  her  eyes,) 

Her  sail,  beyond  the  horizon, 
Reflected  in  the  skies  ! 


[The  above  piece  furnished  Mr.  George  H.  Boughton  the  sug 
gestion  for  his  beautiful  picture,  "The  Two  Farewells."  The  wood 
cut  on  the  opposite  page  is  made  from  the  large  steel  engraving  of 
that  picture.] 

(«6o) 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 


ftfllegtecn  flflJintiotog  anto  otljer 

1  volume.  16mo.    $1.BO. 


3lo0t  farm:  Hanbmacfcg  anU  otfjer 


1  volume.  16mo.     $1.SO. 


of 

1  volume.  16mo.    SI  SO. 


"  He  is  to  the  West,  we  think,  what  Mr.  Bryant  is  to  the  East."— B.  H. 
Stoddard,  in  Scribner's  Monthly. 

"  His  poems  are  totally  unlike  the  products  of  the  Atlantic  coast ;  they  have  a 
racy  flavour  of  their  own,  and  are  a  positive  addition  to  our  national  literature."— 
Underwood's  "Handbook  of  English  Literature." 

"He  has  made  himself  the  poetic  voice  of  Ohio." — Bayard  Taylor,  in  New 
York  Tribiine. 

"  That  Mr.  Piatt  is  a  true  and  good  poet,  there  can,  we  think,  be  no  doubt, 
and  there  is  a  new  element  in  his  poetry,  as  distinguishing  it  from  most  American 
verse,  which  deserves  special  attention.  This  is  his  strong  feeling  for  Earth,  as 
opposed  to  the  mere  admiration  of  some  phases  of  Earth's  being.  He  is  in  full 
sympathy  with  all  Nature,  and  derives  his  inspiration  as  a  poet,  and  his  true 
happiness  as  a  man,  from  the  actual  sense  of  life,  the  simple  fact  that  the  world 
is  fair  and  sweet." — The  (London)  Graphic. 

"  The  lovely  home  feeling  of  many  of  the  other  poems  seems  to  hang  a  new 
garland  on  every  domestic  altar."— The  (New  York)  Independent. 


For  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  and  sent,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of  price  by 
the  Publishers, 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO.,  Boston,  Mass. 


MRS.    PIATT'S    POEMS. 

A  WOMAN'S  POEMS. 

1  vol.  16mo.    $1.50. 


A  VOYAGE  TO  THE  FORTUNATE  ISLES,  ETC. 

1  vol.  16mo.     $1.50. 


THAT  NEW  WORLD,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

1  vol.  16mo.     $1.50. 


DRAMATIC  PERSONS  AND  MOODS. 

I  vol.  16mo.     $1.25. 


POEMS  IN  COMPANY  WITH  CHILDREN. 

1  vol.  small  quarto.     Illustrated,  $1.25. 


"Since  Mrs.  Browning,  no  woman  has  given  a  more  impassioned 
expression— and  with  more  grace  and  beauty  of  poetic  form — to  some 
of  the  profoundest  instincts  of  the  womanly  nature." — The  Library  Table. 

"  Her  strain  is  as  beautiful  as  it  is  singular :  there  is  not  in  English 
poetry  one  more  original,  more  purely  the  singer's  own." — Springfield 
(Mass. )  Republican. 

"  She  has  a  special  gift  of  seeing  into  a  child's  heart,  and  her  songs  to 
or  about  children  are  full  of  the  heaven  that  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy. " — 
E.  C.  Stedman. 


For  sale  by  all  Booksellers.     Sent,  post-paid,  on  receipt 
of  price,  by  the  Publishers, 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO.,  Boston,  Mass. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


FormLQ — 15m-10,'48(B1039)444 


TJNIVEH 


NGELES 
LIBRARY 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGION 

oooi2ii78  8 


